


Harry Potter And The Founder's Crossroads

by everambling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:11:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everambling/pseuds/everambling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after the death of Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter's tumultuous destiny is behind him. But when a strange incident brings about the fall of the International Statute of Secrecy, Harry finds himself once more on the trail of a mystery that could hold the key to saving the Wizarding World.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spring On The Closed Ward

**Author's Note:**

> This is my Harry Potter sequel. Many thanks to everyone on tumblr who commented on the first draft of this chapter. Warnings for the story will include: minor character death, violence, Viktor Krum being altogether too suave for anyone to handle, and mild swearing. Cheers!

The spring months had swept the country with cloying eagerness that year. Lemon trees stood in full bloom, providing merciful patches of shade to the animals and small children playing in the dusty London streets. On the fifth floor of Saint Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, the windows had been enchanted to display verdant life as far as the eye could see.

Quite at odds with the cheerful scenery, screams were coming from a private room adjoining a crowded vestibule.

The vestibule’s occupants milled about uncomfortably in the stifling heat, occasionally glancing at the door to the private room as if meaning to enter, then thinking better of it. A man with heavily scarred features was pacing the length of the space not occupied by the rest of the party.

“It shouldn’t be taking this long,” he said.

“Your mother labored twice as long with you,” said his father, a balding man with wire-rimmed glasses.

“I do wish you would sit down, Bill, dear,” his mother fussed. “There’s nothing to worry about. If there were, we wouldn’t be able to hear her _quite_ so clearly.”

An aggrieved shriek pierced their ears, and Bill redoubled the intensity of his pacing.

“Charlie, on the other hand, fast as you please,” his father reminisced. “I didn’t even have time to make it to the ward from the Ministry, he was already wrapped up and wailing.”

“Here, you can take my seat,” offered his sister, half rising from her armchair.

Without breaking pace, Bill shook his head stiffly.

“It’s true,” a young woman with bushy brown hair chimed in from across the vestibule, “a prolonged labor is no indication of trouble with the baby. Except in one case in France a few years ago, where the mother had been jinxed, and the child was born with antlers. But it says in _Magical Medicine of the Twentieth Century_ —”

“Why don’t we get something from the canteen down the corridor?” interrupted a man with only one ear, seeing the looks on the faces surrounding them. “Who’s feeling peckish?”

“Best to stay put just now,” said Bill’s father. “Healer Pankhurst said it would be over soon. Excellent Healer. We had him with Percy. Remember, Molly, dear?”

“Oh, yes,” said Molly. “Now there was a difficult birth. And then with Fred and George—”

But she cut herself off abruptly, looking stricken. A painful silence had settled over the family. In the corner, the man with one ear had grown pale.

“I _am_ feeling a bit hungry,” said Bill’s sister hastily. “How about that canteen?”

Before she could rise, the door to the private room opened and a Healer emerged.

“It’s a girl!” he announced. “You can come in and say hello.”

Out in the corridor, a man stood half in the shadows and half out, listening to the exclamations of delight from the group. His face betrayed little emotion at the announcement of new life. He had a mane of grizzled hair tied back in a long plait, and his right eye was clouded by the beginnings of a cataract. Occasionally, his fingers twitched at the sound of one of the visitors’ voices, as though he longed to grip a wand with which to strike them silent.

“Have you thought of a name?” asked someone from within the private room.

“Victoire,” answered a voice, tired but lovely.

“Ahh…”

“Yes. We thought eet was fitting. Eet has been one year exactly seence the battle.”

The man in the corridor gave an involuntary twitch, his mouth twisting into a grimace. He reached into the pocket of his robes and produced a small glass orb. From its center emanated a faint silvery glow and a whisper drowned out by the chatter from the nearby canteen. The orb felt cold to the touch.

A trio of visitors filed from the private room into the corridor, bickering amicably and moving towards the canteen. The man’s grip on the orb tightened, and he lowered his head, retreating behind a column in the wooden paneling of the wall to avoid being seen.

“… honestly carrying around your school bag at a time like this?” a tall, gangling redhead was saying.

“Ron!” said the bushy-haired girl reproachfully. “You know how important the NEWT’s are. And they’re only weeks away! I’m already so far behind.”

“You started doing NEWT practice tests in _fourth year_ , Hermione,” Ron protested.

“Well, frankly, I think you could stand to take them a bit more seriously, too. Just because you chose not to return to school—”

“There are still Death Eaters at large!”

“That may be, but—”

“I’ve never taken any seventh year classes. There’s no way I could sit the NEWT’s.”

“Nonsense,” said Hermione angrily. “You’re an excellent wizard. With a little revision I have no doubt you could achieve good scores.”

“You think I’m an excellent wizard?” said Ron, who looked astounded.

“Quiet,” the young man with untidy black hair trailing behind them said suddenly.

His companions rounded on him, offended, but something in his eyes caused their expressions to change at once.

“What is it?” asked Ron, looking all around him tensely.

“We’re being watched.”

Without interrupting her transaction with the canteen attendant, Hermione swept the corridor with her eyes. When she spoke, she barely moved her lips.

“How do you know?”

“The wizard behind the column,” said the dark-haired young man quietly. “The one in the grey robes. He hasn’t looked directly at any of us, and he isn’t wearing a visitor’s name badge.”

A pained look came onto Hermione’s face, and she and Ron exchanged glances.

“Harry, are you sure?” she asked gently.

“I’m not imagining things,” said Harry with some heat.

“I never said you are. But look. There’s no one there.”

Harry turned around. Sure enough, the corridor was empty save for the other redheads trickling out by twos and threes.

“We’re all really tired,” said Hermione in a tone that suggested she thought Harry’s mental state might be as fragile as that of a slighted Hippogriff.

But Harry shook his head, obstinate.

“We believe you, mate,” said Ron, looking pointedly at Hermione, who nodded.

Down on the ground floor, the man with the silvery orb stepped out of a lift and made for the tea room. He walked with the light, practiced gait of someone accustomed to going unnoticed. His cloak fluttered around a dragonhide sheath at his belt which concealed a Hawthorn wand. Abruptly, he brushed a fold of his robes over the sheath to conceal it.

The man took a seat at the far right corner of the tea shop, waving away the witch approaching him with a tray. One table over sat a bearded man of mountainous stature, with hands the size of dustbin lids and crinkled, beetle-black eyes. He was deep in conversation with a woman with long dark hair and hooded eyes, who was toting a gurgling baby on her knee.

“It was nice of yeh ter come out here fer the Weasleys,” the bearded man was saying.

“I had no other engagements,” replied the woman. “And a birth is always cause for celebration. Though I daresay there will be many more in the months to come. There always are, after wars.”

The baby in her lap hiccoughed, and his hair turned an eye-watering shade of lime green.

“Little tyke,” said the bearded man fondly.

“Arthur’s Aunt Muriel was here earlier,” said the woman. “Apparently, Teddy is a miscreant in the making. She asked after you, Hagrid. I believe her words were ‘Where is that enormous man with the dreadful beard? He owes me a game of bridge.’”

Hagrid grinned. “That’s ‘bout as close ter friendly as it gets with Muriel.”

“She is getting on in years,” said the woman idly.

“Still fit as yeh please, though. I reckon yeh could send every Auror the Ministry’s got after Muriel tomorrow an’ she’d send ‘em back ter yeh in pieces.”

“Let us hope it comes to nothing of the sort.”

“I weren’t meanin’ ter upset yeh, Mrs Tonks,” said Hagrid, abashed.

“No, no, it’s all right. I—”

“Healer Rothfang!” exclaimed a voice, drowning out Hagrid’s conversation with Mrs Tonks. The man with the silvery orb looked up.

“Walden,” he said, nodding. The orb disappeared beneath his cloak.

“I had heard you were on holiday,” said Walden, taking a seat without invitation and removing his trainee Healer’s cap.

“I was.” Rothfang cleared his throat. “I am.”

“But you, er, still found your way into the building, then?”

Rothfang fixed the younger man with his one good eye. After a few moments the latter looked away.

“I mean to say, it’s good to see you up and well,” said Walden delicately. “We were all sorry to hear about the, ah, _incident_ on level four.”

Rothfang was silent for some time. Finally he said, “My leave was voluntary.”

“Of course, of course. We all simply hope you’re getting the rest you need.”

Rothfang stood without warning. Beads of sweat pearled on his brow. He shuffled around the table, giving Hagrid and Mrs Tonks a wide berth.

“Leaving so soon?” said Walden.

“Going home,” Rothfang muttered.

His cloak fluttered open again, revealing the wand in its sheath. Walden’s eyes darted to it at once.

“I never could understand why you wear that thing,” said Walden with a hint of humour.

“It may not be of use to me,” replied Rothfang, “but no law can strip me of the right to carry it.”

With that, he turned on his heel and left the tea room. Walden’s attentions augured badly for Rothfang’s chances at remaining long in the Hospital unnoticed. He had accomplished all he had intended to do here, but for one crucial errand. At the end of the guest lobby, he veered left and bypassed the lifts. The watchwizard did not look up from his desk to see him.

The door leading to the Healers’ offices was enchanted. They would have changed the passwords since Rothfang had been expelled from the premises. He withdrew a piece of parchment from his pocket and examined the list of passwords scrawled across it in scarlet ink.

“ _Jobberknoll_ ,” he murmured. Nothing happened. “ _Transylvania. Felix Felicis_.”

The door remained stubbornly sealed. Rothfang glanced nervously at the front desk. The watchwizard was still absorbed in stacks of parchment.

“ _Godric_ ,” said Rothfang, trying the last word on the list.

The door sprang open. Rothfang smiled.

The rooms inside the Healers wing were much more handsomely furnished than the ones in the rest of the hospital. There were plush velvet armchairs and rosewood banisters, and the tiled floor gleamed underfoot. Rothfang hurried to the third office on the right. The door bore a bronze plaque engraved with the name “Healer M. Pankhurst.” Inside, a meticulously organized desk stood by the window.

Pankhurst was notorious for making his trainees alphabetize their patient files. Rothfang opened the desk drawers until he came to the files labeled “W,” and extracted the one he needed.

“Hello,” said a dreamy voice from the doorway.

Rothfang’s head snapped up. A girl with protuberant eyes and straggly blond hair was gazing serenely at him, clutching a handful of what looked like used tea leaves in her hand.

“You’re not Healer Pankhurst,” she pointed out matter-of-factly.

“You’re not a Healer at all,” Rothfang replied.

“No,” the girl agreed. “I’m Luna. I got lost on the way back from the tea room.”

Luna Lovegood. Rothfang recognized her from the photographs of the so-called Dumbledore’s Army in the _Daily Prophet_. He straightened and tucked the file away.

“Your father is a great man,” he said.

“Yes,” Luna agreed. “Are you a reader?”

Rothfang nodded. “I enjoyed his feature on Arabella Figg in the _Quibbler’s_ profile of the Order of the Phoenix.”

“A lot of people wrote to say they didn’t believe her cats could predict the weather.”

Rothfang considered her.

“Are you having me on?”

Luna blinked. “Daddy doesn’t mind when people don’t believe his articles. He says all great truths have borne out in the face of tremendous adversity.”

There was a noise from somewhere outside the office. Rothfang jumped.

“I must be going,” he said. “There is no need to tell anyone that you saw me here.”

“I don’t know your name,” said Luna vaguely. “So no one would know you were here even if I told them.”

“Good.”

Rothfang left Pankhurst’s office with many backwards glances at Luna, who remained stationery in the doorway, humming to herself. He kept his head down as he slipped out of the Healers wing and boarded a lift down to the ground floor. Success was almost within view now. Rothfang could hardly believe his own daring.

“Celsius!”

Rothfang froze. This was it. He would be detained, possibly tortured, and all the information he had gathered would come to light. He could not duel his way out of this. His hand tightened around the pouch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder in his pocket, but would it be enough?

“Celsius!” the voice repeated, and the welcomewitch who normally worked the evening shift sprinted up to him. “It’s you!”

Rothfang’s heart pumped double-time. The witch’s face showed every sign of being pleased to see him. He gave her a weak smile.

“Oh, it’s so lovely to see you,” she told him. “I heard Walden telling Pankhurst you were here, but I was certain, after the trouble on level four…”

“Yes, well I was just leaving.”

“You forgot to sign in,” the witch chirped happily. Rothfang could not recall her name for all the gold in Gringotts. Was it Illyria? Or Prosperina? One of those ostentatious Pureblood names…

“So I did,” he muttered.

“All these security measures, so many months after the end of the war,” said Illyria, or Prosperina. “It’s all a bit silly, if you ask me. What time did you arrive? I’ll fill out the guest register for you.”

“Ten minutes ago. I was only here for a spot of tea. The elf at home can’t brew a pot of tea worth a damn.”

The witch laughed much longer than the comment deserved. Rothfang took the opportunity to hurry away, leaving her calling after him feebly. The warm breeze on his face when he crossed back to Muggle London felt like the pardon on a life sentence in Azkaban. Rothfang took a moment to gather his wits about him before proceeding to the sun-beaten alleyway behind the abandoned shop next door.

His contact greeted him with impatience.

“You have it?” he snapped, already holding out his palm.

“I was almost stopped a few times, had to do some quick thinking,” began Rothfang with a strain of pride. “But I got—”

“Hand it over,” his contact cut him off.

Rothfang gave him the file he had taken from Pankhurst’s desk with some reluctance.

“I was right,” he tried. “Pankhurst has handled all of the Weasley visits since—”

“You will be compensated as discussed,” said the contact, moving to the edge of the shop to verify whether the coast was clear.

“But I’m to be kept in the know about what happens next, yes?”

The contact was inscrutable. “You will know exactly as much as my employer deems necessary, and no more.”

This was the line Rothfang had been fed from the beginning. In his childhood, when his father had deigned to emerge from the study where all were barred entrance, his answers to his son’s inquiries about Hogwarts School had been curt and succinct. _There is no call for you to know_. After his break for freedom, Rothfang had devoured books with an insatiable hunger. He had fought tooth and nail for his post. At present his fists clenched.

“I could be very valuable to you,” he said. “With the resources at my disposal, surely you could find a use for me.”

The contact scoffed. “The resources at our disposal far outstrip your own.”

Rothfang tamped down on the urge to contradict him. To scream, _You are wrong. You have no idea what I have accomplished, the forces I command_. He had to be cleverer than that. He had to ingratiate himself at every turn. It was the tactic that had always served him best.

The contact positioned himself to Disapparate.

“Wait!” said Rothfang.

“What is it?”

Rothfang chewed his tongue. He would have preferred to avoid asking outright.

“I require a Portkey to return home,” he said at last. “Or side-along Apparition. The Ministry watches all Floo transport out of London, given the number of Death Eaters still at large.”

The contact eyed him disdainfully, drawing his wand with a flourish.

“Hand me the broken lid on that rubbish bin,” he said.

Rothfang obliged, wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell when he approached the bins.

The contact touched his wand to the lid and murmured, “ _Portus._ ” It glowed momentarily blue.

“You can do that?” said Rothfang. He could not help the astonishment creeping into his tone. “Just… create an unregistered Portkey?”

“As I said, our resources are vast,” said the contact impassively. He handed Rothfang the Portkey. “Until we meet again,” he added, and Disapparated.

Rothfang was left standing alone in an alleyway in the midday heat, clutching a rubbish bin lid and sweating profusely. For all this, he felt a swell of triumph. There was nothing, now, to stand in his way. He had proven himself. This was the first of many steps to come, and each would bring victory outstripping the last.

The lid glowed blue again. Rothfang braced himself: the sensation of traveling by Portkey had always left him feeling violently ill, though he had done his best to conceal it. He felt a tug in the vicinity of his navel, and vanished from the alleyway.


	2. The Vanishing Grass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addressing a few questions I've had here and on tumblr: I am imitating JK Rowling's style as closely as possible, which means everything will be canon compliant including Pottermore and interviews. However, this story will be told from seven POV's in total. The first chapter's unfamiliar POV was unidentified, but henceforth all POV characters will be made clear. Thank you greatly for the kudos/comments/unspecified lurking. Cheers!

HARRY

Harry Potter was uncomfortably warm in overlarge dress robes under the ardent June sun. Neville Longbottom, from whom he had borrowed the robes, was a little taller than Harry and broader in the shoulder, and the extra fabric bunched at the collar and around the arms felt stifling.

Harry’s own dress robes had been left behind at Number Four, Privet Drive before he had left on his quest to locate Voldemort’s Horcruxes. He had not thought for a moment to ask Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones to reclaim any of his effects from the house when they had brought the Dursleys home from hiding, certain that his Aunt and Uncle would have disposed of all his possessions in as final a manner as possible.

He was standing in the fourth row of a grand assembly in the Hogwarts grounds, awaiting the end-of-term graduation ceremony. He shuffled from side to side to ease his restlessness. Harry had only recently returned from a year spent abroad with Ron, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and a select detachment of Aurors tasked with locating the last of the runaway Death Eaters. After Voldemort’s death, most of his followers had fled the country while their victims attempted to rebuild. A few of the most determined Death Eaters had made it as far as Norway. Yaxley had led the Aurors on a merry hunt all the way to the outskirts of Durmstrang school grounds, where Harry and three others had finally surrounded him. Harry was not yet fully accustomed to the easy pace of life at home.

“Think we’ll be sprouting grey hairs by the time this speech ends?” whispered Ron.

Harry tried not to grin. The solemn wizard at the podium by the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest had been droning on about duty, honor, and legacy for at least three quarters of an hour. Harry had heard more interesting speeches from Professor Binns. Indeed, at least half of the attendees were wearing glazed looks. A few were openly nodding off into sleep. On Ron’s other side, however, Mrs Weasley scowled.

“This is a very important day for your sister,” she whispered, raising her eyebrows pointedly, as if to suggest that Ron intended to personally ensure the failure of the event.

Scattered applause broke out, and Harry realized belatedly that the solemn man had stepped down from the podium to make way for Professor McGonagall. The crowd’s attention sharpened.

“Where’s the Hat?” asked Ron, shielding his eyes from the sun to peer at the podium. “The Sorting Hat usually sings a graduation song. It did when Bill and Charlie and Percy were in seventh year.”

Harry shrugged. As “Anelli, Melissa,” was called to the front, he turned his gaze to the seventh years lined up along the edge of the woods and gave Ginny a thumbs up. She winked at him.

Ginny had seemed unsurprised when Harry had announced his intention of helping Kingsley and the Aurors rather than returning to Hogwarts to complete his education. Few of the students in his year had opted to finish their NEWT classes. Truth be told, Harry had dreaded Hermione’s reaction more than Ginny’s, and had not been disappointed. But though he had missed Hogwarts keenly, he had not regretted his decision. However, he did feel a pang of nostalgia at the sight of so many of his former classmates clad in red and gold. A few spaces down from Ginny, Hermione’s Head Girl’s badge gleamed brightly.

“Baddock, Malcom,” was called up to the podium and awarded his diploma, along with a gleaming silver and emerald sheath and holster for his wand. He departed looking oddly subdued. Harry noticed that the next student called forth, also a Slytherin, looked similarly furtive, as though expecting to be booed off the podium.

Conversely, when “Granger, Hermione” was called, the applause was immediate and thunderous. Ron wolf-whistled, earning himself another pointed look from Mrs Weasley, and Hermione stumbled up to Professor McGonagall blushing furiously. To Harry’s surprise, Professor McGonagall placed a hand on Hermione’s shoulder and leaned forward to speak to her briefly. Hermione departed beaming from ear to ear.

A few minutes passed, and McGonagall called for “Lovegood, Luna.” Harry clapped loudly as Luna wandered onto the podium looking as though she had happened upon it quite by accident. There was a burst of laughter from the first few rows: Luna had enchanted her trainers to sprout eagles’ beaks and wings. With each step she took her shoes cawed loudly, drawing appreciative hoots from her fellow Ravenclaws. Harry could have sworn he saw Professor McGonagall indulge in a small smile as she handed Luna her diploma.

“Look,” whispered Hermione, who had woven her way through the rows to join Harry and Ron. “The grass where she’s stepped… Does it look odd to you?”

Harry squinted in the direction Hermione was pointing. He had been offered a spot at the very front and centre of the crowd, but had refused firmly, much preferring to stand with the Weasleys. From a short distance, he could just make out what looked like yellowed footprints where Luna had walked.

“It looks as if it’s died,” Harry agreed. “It’s probably the heat. Hagrid’s pumpkins don’t look to be faring too well, either.”

Hermione looked pensive. “Hmm. Yes, maybe.”

“What did McGonagall say to you?” asked Ron, leaning around Harry to speak to Hermione as “Way, Ebony,” was called to the front.

Hermione flushed again.

“Oh,” she said, trying not to look too pleased, “she said that Hogwarts’s loss was the Wizarding World’s gain.”

“Nice one,” said Ron, grinning at her.

At last, “Weasley, Ginny,” was called, and another great cheer erupted from the crowd. Harry applauded vigorously, noticing that Ginny was wearing one very shiny, disproportionate earing. Upon closer inspection, he saw that it was her DA Galleon, which bounced along on a chain as she walked. She tapped it discreetly with her wand before stepping onto the podium, and a number of former DA members in the crowd raised their arms in solidarity, including Neville and Ernie Macmillam. Mrs Weasley’s eyes were gleaming with tears, and Harry’s chest felt tight all of a sudden.

Though there were no more students in the row of graduates, four wand holsters remained on the front table. Two were yellow and black, and one was bronze and blue. The last was red and gold, Harry realized with a pang, for Colin Creevey. Professor McGonagall stepped forward.

“I know that we have all weathered the sun patiently and are eager to retire to the Great Hall,” she said. “However, I ask that we take a moment to remember each of the students who are not here with us today.”

Harry blinked quickly and dropped his gaze from the red and gold holster, falling silent with everyone else. A minute passed with only the sound of waves crashing gently against the nearest bank of the black lake. Harry met Ginny’s gaze across the first three rows, and she looked back at him grimly.

“Thank you,” said Professor McGonagall. “I invite you all to join us for dinner to celebrate our graduates.”

A great clamoring rose from the crowd as the attendees dispersed, most making for the castle, some heading for the front gates in order to take the carriages back to Hogsmeade station. Harry, Hermione and the Weasleys lingered to catch up to Ginny, Neville and Luna.

“Congratulations, dear!” said Mrs Weasley tearfully, enfolding Ginny in a tight hug.

“Your mother and I are very proud of you,” added a beaming Mr Weasley, as Mrs Weasley turned to hug Hermione and Neville in turn, and George and Percy clapped Ginny on the back.

“Yeah, now you only have to spend all summer in suspense for your NEWT results,” said Ron.

They all laughed, except for Hermione, who looked anguished. Harry gave Ginny a kiss, releasing her quickly in deference to Mr and Mrs Weasley. Spending all year apart from Ginny, and seeing her only on the odd Hogsmeade weekend when he managed to steal time off from working with the Aurors, had been like a form of acute mental torture. Harry intended to make up for it now at every opportunity.

“You all go on ahead,” said Hermione to the rest of them. “I’ll join you in a minute. I just want to check something.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Ron, who had found his year-long separation from Hermione equally taxing. It was a testament to his eagerness that he did not so much as glance longingly in the direction of the Great Hall, where a warm meal awaited.

“All right,” said Hermione with a faint smile.

After Ron and Hermione had departed, Harry and the others made their way up to the school in high spirits. It was always a treat to see Hogwarts rebuilt after having witnessed its destruction a year ago. Looking at the castle now, Harry could find hardly a sign of its having been half torn down by Voldemort’s army.

“Gwenog Jones was in the front row,” Harry told Ginny as they entered the Great Hall and took a seat at what was normally the Hufflepuff table.

Ginny smiled. “Slughorn invited her to my last match. We flattened Slytherin, four hundred and twenty to sixty. She’s asked me on to the Harpies.”

“Brilliant!” Harry exclaimed.

“I’ll only be an alternate to start, but if I prove myself I’ll be upgraded to Chaser.”

“You know this means we’ll expect you to get us a private box at the next World Cup,” said George, who was seated across from them.

“Says he who never let me play a single match when we were kids,” Ginny replied, though she was grinning.

“Only because we were all afraid you’d show us up.”

Ordinarily, Harry would have expected Ginny to retort in kind. But he could tell that she was too pleased by George’s rare good mood to muster any real animosity. She turned instead to Neville.

“What did Sprout say?” she asked.

“She gave me the name of an Apothecary in Diagon Alley that’d take me on as an Apprentice,” said Neville. “She said in a year or two, when I’ve got a bit of training and she starts considering retirement, she’d take me on and split her class load with me, like Firenze and Trelawney did. McGonagall agreed.”

“Well done, Neville!” said Ginny enthusiastically, and Neville beamed.

“He’s supposed to be really good, the Apothecary owner,” he added, pulling out a copy of the evening paper. “He has an ad in the _Prophet_ , see?”

Mr Weasley, seated next to Neville, turned suddenly grim.

“Ah,” he said, “I see the announcement has made it into the papers.”

They all leaned in to examine the front page headline, which read: MASSES VYING FOR ATTENDANCE TO MURIEL WEASLEY’S FUNERAL.

George snorted. “She’d have loved that, Muriel would.”

“Why did it take so long to arrange for a funeral, father?” asked Percy solemnly.

“Her will was extensive,” Mr Weasley explained. “It listed specifications for her funeral arrangements to the last detail, some of which were… a tad outlandish.”

Mrs Weasley sniffed.

“Yes, I’d definitely call having her casket carried in by seven Phoenixes outlandish,” Mr Weasley went on evenly. “To say the least.”

Harry bit his tongue. It seemed in poor taste to speak ill of the dead, but he had been none too pleased to be informed of certain stipulations of the will in question. Apparently, one of Muriel’s final wishes had been to have Harry Potter speak at her funeral.

“I still don’t understand it,” Ginny piped up. “She was old, but she was in perfect health. I swore she would outlive us all.”

“It was all those delicacies, and the wine and cakes,” said Mr Weasley. “We told her elf to stop having her roasted Snidgets imported from Marseilles—they’re not a protected species there. But she bullied him into it.”

“Don’t let Hermione hear you saying that,” said Ron, reappearing in their midst.

“Where is she?” asked Ginny.

“She’ll be along soon,” said Ron.

“What was she on about?”

“I’m still not sure. She’ll explain it better herself. There she is now.”

Harry followed Ron’s gaze to the Head table, where Hermione stood next to McGonagall. The Headmistress nodded and stood.

“If I could have your attention,” said McGonagall, and the Hall fell silent. “Our Head Girl would like to say a few words.”

“Hello,” said Hermione nervously. “Er, I hope you’ve all been having a lovely visit.”

Harry raised his eyebrows in Ron’s direction, and the latter rolled his eyes affectionately.

“You’ll see,” he muttered.

“Before we eat, I think it would be, er, nice, if we could give a round of applause to our kitchen staff,” Hermione continued. “They’ve worked very hard to prepare tonight’s meal, which is a special meal, because it’s the first made entirely by paid elves.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, punctuated by loud applause from Ron. The rest of the Hall followed shortly. To the sound of bemused cheers, a hundred very unhappy looking house-elves Apparted into the Great Hall. Harry could not stifle a laugh as he saw Hermione gesturing emphatically at them. Finally, the elves took a bow one by one, looking mortified. They Disapparated the very second the last bow was complete. A moment later, a hundred succulent dishes materialized onto the tables.

“It was good, wasn’t it?” said Hermione excitedly when she had rejoined Harry and the others.

“It was,” Neville assured her, while they all nodded into their plates.

“So what were you checking up on?” asked Harry, lowering his voice.

“The footsteps in the grass,” she explained with a significant look. Ginny turned to listen while the others remained absorbed in their meal. “I went back to have a closer look, and they’ve changed. The grass hasn’t just died, it’s shriveled. There’s nothing there now but dirt.”

“Could be something to do with the enchantment on Luna’s shoes,” Ginny suggested. “What spell did you use, Luna?”

“Oh, it was the same one I used on that lion hat I wore to your Quidditch matches,” said Luna.

But Hermione shook her head. “No, this was something darker. So I went to—”

“The library,” Harry and Ginny cut her off in unison, and she smiled.

“The greenhouses, actually,” she said. “And it’s like I thought. All of Professor Sprout’s Flutterby saplings are dead, or wilting.”

Neville made a noise like a wounded animal.

“And didn’t you say Hagrid’s pumpkins looked the worse for wear, Harry?” Hermione went on.

“I s’pose,” said Harry, frowning. “I wonder what could be wrong with them.”

“So do I,” said Hermione. She had the slightly feverish look about her that often presaged a fresh mystery. Harry and Ron exchanged a glance.

“Now the library?” said Ron tentatively.

Hermione had already half risen from her bench.

***

LUNA

The well-worn house tapestries masking the scorch marks on the walls of the Room of Requirement took on an impressive, even regal air in the guttering light of two dozen floating candles. Luna examined them carefully, gaging which of the emblems appeared friendliest. She was absorbed in the details of a badger’s fur coat when Ginny tugged on her hand, leading her to the pile of cushions at the front of the room.

The old DA haunt was filled to capacity with beaming faces. Luna knew all their names. She repeated each one in her head to really let herself appreciate the fact that they were all there.

“I think that’s everyone,” said Neville, nodding to Ginny.

“Aren’t Harry, Ron and Hermione coming?” asked Ernie Macmillan from the front row. Ernie’s eyes reflected the candlelight in a way that was almost hypnotizing. It reminded Luna of his Patronus.

“Nah,” Ginny answered. “We didn’t invite them. We all love those three, but this is just for us. For those of us who were here together for the year of the Carrows.”

The year of the Carrows sounded like an exciting book of uplifting tales, with perhaps some helpful cooking tips. Luna nodded in agreement.

“Hear, hear!” said Seamus Finnigan, whose face had never fully healed from his last detention.

“Then what’s Thomas doing here?” asked Zacharias Smith from the back, which Luna thought was rather rude. This was fitting, as Zacharias Smith was rather a rude person, on the whole.

“Who invited you?” Padma Patil piped up, and there was a smattering of applause.

“Smith, don’t make me hex you again,” said Ginny affably. “If I remember correctly, you wore those dragonhide swim trunks for three days before Madame Pomfrey could transfigure them back into your trousers.”

Zacharias Smith turned a shade of red indistinguishable from the Gryffindor banners.

“Dean fought in the battle last year,” Seamus added. “Which is more than you can say.”

“This isn’t about who stayed for the battle and who didn’t,” said Neville. “This is about—”

“And who was it that turned stooge for the Carrows after a single detention?” Michael Corner interrupted angrily.

Zacharias Smith spluttered defensively, holding his palms out in a gesture that indicated he thought his compatriots were being very unreasonable. Luna thought she heard him mutter “Unforgiveables” and “supposed to do?” But no one else seemed to hear, or else they all pretended not to.

“You know what, Smith?” said Anthony Goldstein. “I don’t think you’re welcome here.”

“Now, hang on just a minute,” Zacharias Smith began, looking to each of the others in turn in search of an ally and meeting only unfriendly gazes.

“Oh, look!” said Luna, pointing to the bookcase that had once housed all of Harry’s best volumes on Defense. “Colin’s book.”

There was a momentous silence as all eyes turned to Dennis Creevey, tiny as ever and sitting in the back row. Slowly, Dennis rose and approached the bookcase.

“I’d forgotten he left it here,” said Dennis, lifting the photo album from the top shelf with some assistance from Cho Chang and blowing dust from the cover. He opened it to the first page and smiled.

The book was passed around. Luna remembered every detail of the first photograph. It had been taken on the night of the start-of-term feast the previous year, when the DA had met for an impromptu evening of commiseration for the year that was sure to come. In a fit of uncharacteristic camaraderie, Zacharias Smith had sportingly agreed to play the role of a louche, scowling Snape. In the photograph, a laughing Lavender Brown hexed him again and again, and Zacharias was thrown onto his backside, his lips framing an indignant “ _Potter!_ ”

“This film was developed in essence of cartwheeling dilligrout,” said Luna knowingly when the album was passed to her.

Luna had insisted that her father keep his appointment to meet the world’s foremost expert on essence of cartwheeling dilligrout in Berlin that weekend, although it had meant that he would miss her graduation. It was very important for the _Quibbler_ that the story be properly researched. This was something Luna had learned from Hermione: there was no such thing as too much research.

“Er, I don’t think it was,” said Dennis.

“There,” said Neville loudly, taking the album. “This is why we’re here. To remember the year these photos were taken.”

The former members of the DA looked slightly abashed. Zacharias Smith, for once, was silent.

At last, Lavender asked, “So what are we going to do?”

Luna liked storytelling best of all party games, and second to that, Exploding Snap. She had saved up a few excellent stories about the Lawn Gnome city that existed under the black lake, but could sense that Ginny had something up her sleeve, so she waited. Sure enough, Ginny stepped forward.

“We’re going to have a bit of fun,” she said, and with a flourish she pulled a pile of rags from behind her back.

The pile of rags was the Sorting Hat, which did not look as cheerful as it had on the other occasions Luna had seen it.

“How’d you get that?” asked Anthony.

“Nicked it,” said Ginny, grinning impishly. “Don’t worry, I’ll put it back before it’s missed,” she added for the benefit of Ernie, who looked rather apprehensive.

“But what are you going to do with it?” asked Dennis with some trepidation.

“You might have noticed no one was sitting at their usual house tables at the feast tonight,” said Ginny. “I thought we could try the hat on and have it tell us if it still thinks we belong where it sorted us in first year.”

There were whispers of disapproval from all around the room. A few people actually stepped back. Ginny looked unperturbed.

“Of course, after facing You-Know-Who’s army, I understand if a hat is too much for you,” she said.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Neville added. “It’s all in good fun. But no one has to put it on if they don’t want to.”

There was a collective breath—the room would need more air, Luna worried—and then Dennis stepped forward, almost immediately followed by Lavender. Parvati, Cho, and Dean formed a queue behind them, and nearly everyone else joined in.

“Ready?” Ginny asked Dennis, who nodded.

The hat fell past his eyes and got caught on the bridge of his nose. Luna was impressed at the dashing figure Dennis cut. She made a mental note to give him robes five times too large for Christmas.

They all waited on tenterhooks until Ginny pulled the hat from his head.

“Well?” she asked.

Dennis looked puzzled.

“Nothing happened,” he said.

Ginny’s shoulders fell. “Nothing?”

“Maybe it knows we aren’t supposed to have it,” Neville ventured.

“Maybe it can sense all the Nargles nesting in this room,” said Luna.

“Or maybe,” said a snide voice, and Ginny held the hat suddenly away from herself as its tattered brim opened, “it does not take kindly to having its judgment called into question.”

“Hello,” said Luna to the hat, minding her manners.

“Er, we didn’t mean any offense, sir,” said Neville. Ginny mouthed “ _sir?_ ” at him, and he shrugged. “It’s just that so much has changed in the last few months.”

“And didn’t you say yourself, the year You-Know-Who returned, that you didn’t think it was right that you had to ‘quarter every year?’” added Cho Chang.

“That,” replied the hat, “is neither here nor there.”

“So you stand by every single sorting you’ve made?” asked Zacharias Smith belligerently. “You claim you’ve never mucked up once?”

It was useful, sometimes, to have rude people in your midst, so that they might say the things oneself could not say without being rude.

The hat made a sound that was like clicking its tongue, though it probably did not have a tongue.

“What about Snape?” Zacharias Smith insisted.

“Snape was a right foul git,” Seamus interjected. “He got sorted exactly where he was meant to.”

“Come on, Seamus,” said Parvati. “You heard what Harry said to You-Know-Who. Snape was always on our side.”

“Just because he had it bad for Harry’s mum, doesn’t mean he wasn’t a git,” Seamus replied staunchly.

“And a Death Eater to boot,” added Dean.

“But we might not be here if he hadn’t been,” said Padma.

“Severus Snape,” interjected the hat, “was sorted where he belonged. He was also sorted into the house he himself requested.”

“Hang on, you can choose?” said Michael Corner.

The news seemed to cause a stir. Everywhere DA members turned to one another in astonishment.

“No one told me you could pick your house!”

“Did you know?”

“I was never told…”

Ginny frowned in Luna’s direction.

“Poor choice of party trick,” she muttered.

Luna did not think it mattered, as she enjoyed herself whenever she was in Ginny and Neville’s company. However, with Ginny’s disappointment evident, Luna mulled over a change of subject.

“Which house would _you_ choose?” she asked the hat.

This, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. Luna often wrong-footed people, or hats, without meaning to. The hat opened its brim very wide, then shut it resolutely, and spoke no more.

“Well,” said Neville after a fashion, “I don’t suppose we were ever going to get an uneventful evening in the Room of Requirement.”

“’Course not,” said Ginny. She turned to Luna. “Why don’t you tell that story about the gnomes to lighten the mood before I pop up to McGonagall’s office to return this thing?”

Luna had prepared a story. She took a deep breath and began to speak, and everyone stayed to listen.


	3. Aunt Muriel's Big Mistake

HARRY

“Does it really say we have to wear these?”

“Your Aunt’s will is very clear,” said Mrs Weasley reluctantly. “We’re all to wear accoutrements from her personal collection.”

Ron lifted his arms in disgust, examining his reflection in the fountain that stood some distance from the entrance of the central London cathedral where the Weasleys had gathered. A plumed hat best suited to a seventeenth century baron was perched awkwardly atop his head.

“She’s taunting us from beyond the grave,” he said darkly.

Harry privately agreed, but was rather preoccupied with the effort to avoid openly scoffing at Ron’s attire, and said nothing.

“Why did she want the service held here, dad?” asked Bill, clad in the vestments of what might have been a medieval monk. The squirming baby in his arms wailed loudly enough to rouse the entire city. “Saint Paul’s is a Muggle cathedral.”

“That fountain is being dedicated to an old sweetheart of Muriel’s today,” said Mr Weasley. “Lovely chap. Muggleborn. Very interested in architecture; he invested a fortune in restoring the place. I’ll wager she wanted to draw focus.”

Harry, who was not a Weasley and as such not subject to an enforced dress code, rolled up the sleeves of his new dress robes in an effort to ward off the heat. In truth, Muriel could not have picked a more spectacular locale. The cathedral was resplendent under the cloudless summer sky, its stalwart pillars elevating the structure from merely elegant to almost daunting. Swarms of mourners were already approaching, along with a number of Muggle news vans, no doubt in honor of the fountain’s dedication.

“Ouch!” Ron hissed suddenly, diverting Harry’s attention.

Hermione had been moving absently towards the fountain and had accidentally stepped on his foot.

“Sorry,” she muttered, looking around in surprise.

“You’re not still thinking of Sprout’s dead Flutterby Bushes, are you?” asked Ron.

Hermione glanced at the other Weasleys to ensure that they were not listening. “Nothing I’ve read so far has been any help. Nothing! I’m beginning to think there’s no such thing as a curse in magical botany.”

“You’ll find something,” Ron assured her.

The doors to the cathedral opened.

“It’s now or never,” said Mrs Weasley bracingly, leading the way into the church. Harry, Ron and Hermione, all slated to speak at Muriel’s behest, lined up to the side of the pews. Harry scanned the crowd with mounting interest. A veritable who’s who of the roster of Kingsley Shacklebolt’s staff and closest friends had turned up. Kingsley had often regaled Harry, Ron and the other Aurors with tales of his days in the field while they spent long nights abroad on the trail of this or that Death Eater. Harry recognized Lavinia Blishwick, the Auror who had trained Kingsley, and whose scars would have given Mad-Eye Moody’s a run for their money; Emeritus Fawley, who had singlehandedly financed the revival of the Wimbourne Wasps; and Eldred Worple, who had called Rita Skeeter’s biography _Severus Snape: Scoundrel or Saint?_ unmitigated tripe and risen considerably in Harry’s estimation.

Harry wondered if any of these people cared at all about the service, or whether they had turned up in the hopes of getting their hands on some heretofore undisclosed portion of Muriel Weasley’s estate. He had overheard Bill confiding in Fleur that morning that Muriel’s Gringott’s vault was in fact almost empty, and that all her wealth had gone into sunken investments before the first war. Harry’s heart had dropped at this news. Though he could never tell Ron as much, he had secretly hoped that enough of Muriel’s inheritance would pass to Mr and Mrs Weasley as to relieve them of the burden of having raised seven children. This feeling was exacerbated by Harry’s having spent the summer after the war at the Burrow, where Mrs Weasley would not hear a word of his offering some portion of his inheritance in compensation for his presence.

“Don’t be silly, dear,” had said Mrs Weasley in a tone that would brook no contradiction. “You’ve always been welcome here.” And though her efforts to ensure that Ginny slept alone in her own room each night had been stringent, she had hugged Harry fondly.

As ever, Harry had found himself at a loss for what to say.

A shrunken, ancient little wizard had taken to the altar. When the last of the mourners had settled into their seats, he cleared his throat.

“We gather today to remember Muriel Weasley,” he said in a remarkably carrying voice for his stature. “For those of us who knew Muriel best, her passing comes as a shock in the face of her vitality. However, in these trying times it behooves us to draw comfort from the memory of a life well-lived…”

Harry had been to a great many funeral services in the last year. Few had been so well-attended, though most had been a great deal more sombre than this one. He rather hoped that this would be the last of the funerals for some time.

“And now,” said the shrunken wizard, “we will hear from a young man who had a close personal relationship with Muriel. Mr Harry Potter.”

Harry, who had met Muriel Weasley once in his life while under the influence of Polyjuice potion, did his best to school his expression into one of respectful contemplation as he made his way to the altar. Ron and Hermione gave him subdued looks of encouragement, though the effort on Ron’s part was rather spoiled by the way his plume bobbed dramatically atop his head.

Alone at the front of the assembly, Harry felt the weight of hundreds of pairs of eyes on him. It was a sensation he had never grown accustomed to, no matter how the public scrutiny of his every move had redoubled after the war. He concentrated on the smile Ginny was giving him from the front row, and the fragments of multicolored light filtering through the expanse of stained glass windows all around him. He took a deep breath.

There was a tremendous crash from somewhere outside, and the entire front wall of the cathedral was blown apart.

Harry experienced a moment of paralysis as the assembly was engulfed by dust and rubble, and the room was illuminated by flashes of green light: cursed light. The escaped Death Eaters had often resorted to brash action in moments of desperation, but nothing so brazen. This had to be a more organized form of attack.

He heard someone screaming, and in his head the screaming morphed into high, cold, cruel laughter while a buried voice inside him resurfaced to whisper, _It’s Him, he’s back, of course he is. You always knew he would be. You knew it was too good to be true._

In the split-second before he burst into movement, Harry became aware that every one of the mourners within sight were watching him expectantly. They were waiting for him to step in and play the Chosen One.

Harry drew his wand. Ron and Hermione were already sprinting towards him, coughing in the clouds of dust. Harry vaulted over the altar railing, landing before the Weasleys.

“Are you all right?” he asked Ginny urgently.

She nodded, clutching her own wand. Mrs Weasley had wrapped her arms instinctively around her daughter in order to shield her from harm.

“Mum, you’re choking me,” Ginny muttered faintly.

“Stay here,” Harry told her.

“Not a chance,” she said.

Harry gave Mr Weasley a pained look, which the latter returned in kind. At last, they all turned to race together to the opposite end of the cathedral, where the dust was beginning to settle. Lavinia Blishwick was already crouched behind a splintered pew, scanning the entranceway. Without missing a beat, she nodded to Harry and signaled that he should cover the left side of the wall.

Harry could spot no sign of an attacker. Yet he had seen the curses flying.

“ _Dissillusioned?_ ” he mouthed to Hermione.

He saw her frown and flick her wand in the direction of the front courtyard, no doubt casting a non-verbal _Homenum Revelio_. She shook her head.

“We have to get everyone out of here,” said Ron. Groans were beginning to sound behind them as people stunned by the attack stirred into motion. Harry’s stomach clenched when he saw an elderly man with his leg trapped beneath a sizeable chunk of the wall.

“Dad and I will round up anyone who can walk and take them through the side exit,” said Bill, placing a kiss on Victoire’s head and depositing her into Fleur’s arms. “We’ll meet you outside.”

“We must see to those who are ‘urt,” said Fleur faintly. She covered Victoire’s nose with a handkerchief as she knelt next to the elderly man, whose leg was bleeding profusely. Percy and Mrs Weasley joined her.

Harry caught his breath, looking all around him. Something was not adding up.

“It’s not over,” he said. “Everyone needs to get down.”

Ron, Hermione, Ginny and George obeyed him at once, dropping to the ground. To Harry’s surprise, everyone in the vicinity followed suit. He had spoken his thoughts aloud, but his voice must have carried.

To Harry’s right, Lavinia Blishwick suddenly looked up.

As if in response, there was a bellowed incantation from somewhere above them, and a violent wind swept in from the courtyard. Harry was nearly knocked off his feet by the force of it. A plank from one of the demolished pews was ripped from its frame, and Ginny cast a shield charm just in time to prevent it from hitting Fleur.

The wind swirled in a great circle, blowing dust in every direction so that it was impossible for Harry to see more than a few feet in any direction. He could feel Ron and Hermione struggle to their feet at either side of him, indistinct figures in the chaos of flying rubble. And then another figure advanced through the dust, and another. Harry braced himself.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” he shouted. The curse was lost in the swirl of wind, and the figures continued to advance. They seemed to be circling around, drawing Harry, Ron and Hermione forward. Harry had lost track of where he was standing relative to the cathedral. He dodged an unidentified jinx while Ron cast a retaliatory stunner over his head. Hermione was muttering protective enchantments rapid-fire, erecting a shield around them.

“ _Petrificus Horribilis!_ ” Harry tried. His arsenal of defensive and offensive spells had received a considerable boost over the course of his work with Kingsley. The curse was deflected and parried with a blinding jet of purple light. Harry ducked just in time and cast _Levicorpus_. His attacker was lifted into the air, still concealed by the swirling dust. But at the very next moment, they Disapparated. Just as Harry had begun to conjure a fountain of boiling water, all of their assailants vanished and the wind dissipated, leaving the dust to settle.

“Oh, God,” said Hermione.

She, Ron and Harry had unwittingly wandered right up to the fountain outside the church. Stationed in a semicircle around them were four Muggle news vans. Complicated recording equipment was mounted on tripods next to each one.

“What’s going on?” said Ron.

“Harry, put down your wand!” said Hermione urgently.

Harry realized that boiling water and steam were still pouring from the tip of his wand. He muttered a hasty counter-curse and lowered his arm. The cameraman from the first van was gaping at him, open-mouthed.

Judging by the blinking red light atop his camera, he had already been recording.

***

DUDLEY

Dudley Dursley was leaving a coffee shop across the street from the London Grunnings offices when the world went off its rocker.

He had been cradling an extra-large coffee and a box of beignets to dull the disappointment of a very bad day. His promising boxing career had come to a premature end earlier that spring when he had suffered an injury to his left shoulder during a match. After brooding for a solid three months, he had resigned himself to accepting his father’s offer of a job at Grunnings. The job paid a lot of money. His father was pleased. Dudley did not sleep very much anymore. Something, some unidentifiable itch at the back of his mind, had been eating away at him for many months now. He thought about twelve months, if he counted very carefully. But Dudley did not like to think of what his life had been like a year ago, when he had come out of hiding.

Quite suddenly, a man in a business suit came sprinting up the sidewalk and collided rudely with Dudley, causing him to spill coffee all down his front. The man did not even pause to apologize before continuing on his mad dash in the opposite direction. Dudley’s immediate instinct was to bellow oaths and chase after the man with his fists raised. But something else caught his attention.

Across the street, a throng of onlookers had gathered around the display of an electronics shop, where a television appeared to be showing a news report. Many of the viewers gave loud exclamations of dismay. Behind them, two more pedestrians came running up the street. A symphony of car horns blared in the distance and there was a sound like an explosion.

Dudley was reminded of his favourite video game, where the city fell under attack from an alien entity and mobs took to the street to loot and pillage. Dudley was an expert looter and pillager, in the game. At present, however, something told him the safest course of action would be to return to work. The safest course was Dudley’s lot. He did not like to confront an enemy unless he was flanked by at least three friends to back him up. His cousin was the sort of person who apparently fought wars with evil sorcerers, not Dudley.

Unbidden into his mind came the memory of that terrible night four years ago, when Dead-mentors—he frowned, certain that could not be right—had preyed upon Harry and Dudley in Little Whinging. It had been as though someone had reached inside his head and set a roll of film there. Dudley had seen a creature with a red, sweaty face, contorted with infantile cruelty, chasing small children through parks and alleyways, punching and scratching and spraying spittle as he laughed. It had taken some time for Dudley to realize that _he_ was the creature.

He did not see much of Piers Polkiss or the rest of his old college gang anymore. Any time one of the boys suggested going out to wrangle a few school kids and knock their teeth out, Dudley began to feel violently ill.

There was a second explosion, much closer this time. Smoke was rising from a car some fifty yards away, and all around it, dozens of people were swarming the streets, forming a shrieking pack. A group of them managed to lift a battered park bench from a shop front and throw it through a greengrocer’s window, setting off strident alarms.

Dudley remained rooted to the spot. He was torn between a desire to retreat and an aversion to hearing his father make a purple-faced speech about hooligans back at the Grunnings office.

“Watch it, mate!”

Dudley turned just in time to duck and avoid the rock flying directly at his head. The looters had drawn almost level with the coffee shop now. Projectiles were flying in every direction. Dudley thought sullenly, _I’m not your mate_. But he nodded in thanks to the shabbily dressed man crouching beneath a lunch table on the shop’s patio, who had saved him.

“What’s going on?” Dudley asked.

“Ain’t you heard?” cried the other, wincing as a man emerged from his car to bellow at the looters and was promptly clubbed over the head with a dustbin lid. “City’s under attack. Foreigners, innit? It was on the news.”

“What do you mean?” said Dudley. Vernon Dursley’s idea of “foreigners” was ominous and all-encompassing. Dudley remained uncertain as to the nature of the actual threat they posed.

“This bloke on the telly, right, he was waving ‘round this little wooden stick,” the man under the table explained, “and next thing you know it’s this storm raging all over the place and he’s got a mess of lights and waterworks coming out of nowhere. Biological weapons, I reckon,” he added knowledgeably.

Dudley had frozen. He did not know what biological weapons were, but he knew exactly what it meant that someone had waved around a wooden stick on television and made lights appear. Only, weren’t that lot meant to keep their world a secret? Hadn’t Harry been expelled from freak school, once, for performing one of his tricks in front of Dudley?

If it was only that one of his cousin’s lot had slipped up and done magic on television, then the city was not really under attack. Dudley straightened up and surveyed the mob. Recalling the way that dreadful giant had beaten down the door of their hostel in the middle of the sea when he was eleven, Dudley could hardly blame these people for being frightened. Still, it all seemed a bit much.

“They’ll get all of us one by one!” the man under the table called out.

Shaking his head, Dudley crossed to the opposite side of the street as the flow of looters began to ebb. Ducking around a gaggle of youths in combat boots, he approached the shattered window of the electronics shop. Many of the displays had been upended, but the television remained intact. Dudley gaped at it with dawning wonder.

Footage from the front courtyard of Saint Paul’s cathedral was playing on a loop. For a few moments the image was blurred by what appeared to be a sandstorm in the middle of a pleasant June day. Then, just as suddenly, the storm abated. At its centre stood Harry, who had his magic wand out and was spouting water into the air with it. Behind him were those two freak friends of his. The ginger one—his name might have been Reginald—was looking around in confusion, while the bushy-haired one—Henry? No, that was a boy’s name—hissed something at Harry. The scene repeated several more times as a bulletin streamed by at the bottom of the screen. The bulletin passed too quickly for Dudley to read it, but he thought he caught the words “un-doctored footage” and “massive cover-up.”

Suddenly, a frazzled news anchor appeared on screen. She was in the process of adjusting her earpiece.

“Er,” she said, looking startled, “the footage you’ve just seen is a repeat of an earlier live broadcast from Saint Paul’s cathedral. We can confirm exclusively that it is one hundred percent authentic. The nature of the incident is unknown, and may yet be revealed as an elaborate marketing hoax. However, as of this report two lives are confirmed lost in the attack on the church. The Prime Minister has already given a puzzling public statement on the matter, asserting that the situation is well in hand and adding that in no way should anyone concern themselves with the existence of magicians in our midst…”

A car behind Dudley burst into flames. He jumped in alarm, stumbling back, and came face to face with the most attractive woman he had ever seen.

Her hair fell in two snarled, dark curtains around her face, and she had a slight air of shellshock about her. Dudley had seen shellshock in war films. It crossed his mind to offer her a blanket, before he remembered that he had no blanket to hand.

A man with fevered eyes jumped onto the burning car and began shouting about the approach of the rapture.

“Quickly, come this way,” said the stunning woman, sounding much more alert than she had appeared.

She ducked into the alleyway leading behind the electronics shop, pulling Dudley with her. The riot notwithstanding, Dudley could not believe his luck.

“It’s not safe out there,” said the woman, glancing around the corner to ensure they had not been followed. She eyed him up and down. “Who are you?”

“Dudley Dursley.”

“Hmm. That name sounds familiar. But I don’t know where I’ve heard it before.”

“My surname is on the skyscraper a mile down,” muttered Dudley. Perhaps in an effort to vent his frustrations with the magical world, Dudley’s father had tripled his efforts at work after being given his old job back. He had been made a partner this winter.

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” said the woman, but she shrugged. “No time for that now. Who are— Er, what do you do?”

Dudley had the faintest of impressions that she meant to ask something different entirely, but could not concentrate properly with her eyes on him. She seemed to give the entire alleyway an added lustre.

“I work with drills,” he said stupidly. _I work with drills_. Dudley could feel himself flushing.

“Oh.” The woman pursued her lips. Quietly, she muttered to herself, “Muggle.”

Muggle? Wasn’t that one of his cousin’s words? A horrible suspicion began to gnaw at him.

“Well, Dudley,” the woman went on, “I think it’ll be best if we take a detour. The streets are dangerous at the moment. I can take you some of the way, but I have to return to my office soon. I was just on my lunch break…”

“I—I can escort you all the way to a safe place,” Dudley ventured, mortified by the thought of allowing a woman to help him to safety.

She smiled. Dudley felt winded.

“Trust me,” she said, “you’ll need me more than I’ll need you.”

“Who are you?” Dudley blurted.

“Cho Chang,” said the woman, extending her hand. Dudley shook it with numb fingers. “I was just interviewing for a job as a junior reporter nearby when the riot started. Of course,” she added, more to herself it seemed, “Rita Skeeter wasn’t really interested in hiring me. She only wants to talk about who I went out with in sixth year…”

The name Rita Skeeter seemed somehow undignified to Dudley. He was certain his father would have had an indignant comment to make on it.

“Let’s go,” said Cho Chang. She pried loose a few of the boards in the fence separating them from the adjoining alleyway. Dudley squeezed himself through the gap after her with some effort. Though he was still what his mother called a “man’s healthy weight,” he had slimmed down a great deal since he had begun losing sleep. Comparatively, he was now almost gaunt.

“Where are we going?” asked Dudley when they emerged onto the next street, which had not yet been overrun.

“Shouldn’t you return to your skyscraper?” asked Cho.

Dudley had an idea. He was so pleased with himself that he had to struggle not to smile from ear to ear.

“I’ve just been fired,” he announced. “So it doesn’t matter.”

There. Now he could stay by her side. The logic was foolproof.

“Then you should go home,” she said.

Dudley felt that she might be put off if he pretended to be homeless. Evidently, he was not going to get anything past Cho Chang. He began to wrack his brain for new inspiration, but was interrupted by the infernal noise of a car crash a few blocks away. Dudley, who was facing the crash, winced but remained calm. However, Cho was so startled that she whipped something out of her pocket and spun into a defensive stance.

Dudley’s heart plummeted out of his chest and all the way down to his heels when he saw what she was holding.

Cho realized her mistake at once and attempted to hide the magic wand.

“Er, that’s nothing,” she began.

“You’re a w—witch!” said Dudley accusingly. He did not like saying the word aloud.

Cho looked taken aback. “What makes you say that?”

“My cousin is a… you know… one of your lot.” Dudley looked furtively around to make sure no one was listening, but the street was mostly deserted. “He was on the news today.”

Cho’s jaw dropped.

“You’re Harry’s cousin!” she exclaimed. “I knew I recognized the name.”

“You know Harry?”

“You could say that.” Cho crossed her arms, frowning. “So, what, do you have a problem with me being a witch, or something? He almost never spoke about you at school. Didn’t you get along? Were you jealous of him, or something?”

Dudley blinked. It had never occurred to him to look at his cousin in those terms. Harry had always been the jealous one; jealous of Dudley’s toys, his friends, his new clothes. But there had been a very small part of Dudley that had wondered… because his cousin did seem very well liked in the place he disappeared to each year, didn’t he?

“You could say that,” he answered.

Cho considered him. There was an odd look on her face.

“Well,” she said, “at least I don’t have to Obliviate you, thank heavens.”

Dudley did not know what “Obliviate” meant. He wondered if she intended to recruit him to a cult, or something.

“What—” He cleared his throat and tried again. “Then what now?”

Cho Chang thought for a moment, then smiled.

“I have an idea.”


	4. The Lightning-Struck Tavern

HARRY

Harry had only an instant in which to exchange looks of panic with Ron and Hermione before his arm was seized and he was dragged unceremoniously into the suffocating sensation of Apparition. He came out gasping and disoriented on the pavement next to the Ministry of Magic employees’ entrance. Lavinia Blishwick dropped her grip on him, releasing Ron and Hermione with her other arm and brushing dust from her robes.

“What the _hell_ was that about?” shouted Ron, bent double. “Everyone is still back there!”

“We need to get you into a Ministry safe room at once,” rasped Blishwick. She kicked open the Ministry door and shoved them forward. The public toilets of Voldemort’s reign had thankfully been dispensed with, so Harry was merely engulfed in cool flame for a moment before staggering out into the Atrium.

“But we need to know what happened back there!” said Hermione. “Who attacked us? What happened to—”

“Your family and friends are well,” said Blishwick.

“But—”

“It is imperative that you take cover immediately.”

“No,” said Harry.

Blishwick narrowed her eyes. “ _No?_ ”

“Not until you tell us what’s going on.”

Blishwick looked mightily impatient, but after a moment she pulled them away from the hustle and bustle of the Atrium to speak to them behind the relative cover of the ornate frame of a fireplace.

“You three have irrevocably broken the International Statute of Secrecy,” she said. “There is no greater offense. You have condemned our world to a period of great chaos. There is no telling how the Muggle or Magical governments will react. It is in your best interest to lie low for the time being.”

“But this is mad!” said Ron. “We haven’t condemned anything. There were hardly that many people at the cathedral. They’ll be Obliviated and go on their merry way.”

But Hermione had gasped. “The cameras,” she said. “They were broadcasting live?”

“Precisely,” said Blishwick. “The footage will be rebroadcast before the Ministry can contain the situation. Thousands have already seen. Given the notoriety already attached to your names, the scandal will be monumental.”

“Why are you helping us?” asked Ron.

“Because I was in a position to do so.”

Ron and Hermione looked to Harry for approval.

“All right,” said Harry grudgingly. “Where are you taking us?”

“The Department of Mysteries,” said Blishwick. “No one will seek you there. When you are secure, you may contact your family and friends at your leisure.”

Without giving them the chance to argue further, Blishwick set off for the lifts at a brisk pace. Harry, Ron and Hermione followed behind her, casting looks left and right and half expecting to see fingers pointing accusingly in their direction.

“Keep your heads down,” Blishwick hissed at them.

They entered the lifts an awkward, huddled mass. Harry did not register the cool voice reeling off the designations of each floor. He could not forget Ginny and the others, still at the cathedral. Had they even seen Blishwick Disapparate with Harry, Ron and Hermione, or were they wondering whether the attackers had absconded with them?

When they arrived at the floor where Harry had once attended a disciplinary hearing for underage magic, they disembarked and strode to the locked door of the Department of Mysteries.

“How are you going to get us in?” asked Hermione. She was watching Blishwick very closely. Harry assumed she must have read something about the ex-Auror, or she would not have trusted a complete stranger. Ron and Harry had heard Kingsley recount the number of times Blishwick had saved his life and were inclined to take her at her word.

“I have a key,” said Blishwick. She withdrew an ornate skeleton key from her pocket and unlocked the door, ushering them in.

They found themselves standing in the circular room Harry remembered all too well, lined with a dozen identical doors. Harry closed his eyes, and for a moment he could hear high, cold laughter ringing through his head again.

“What?” said Ron.

Harry felt Hermione shuffle next to him and turned.

“Nothing,” she said hastily.

There was a muted rumble beneath their feet. The walls began to move, and soon the doors had blurred, spinning at a vertiginous speed around them. When they finally settled, Blishwick remained standing with her back to them, staring at the wall.

“Er, now what?” said Ron.

“Now,” said Blishwick, still without turning, “we begin the great work.”

“Sorry?” said Ron.

Blishwick’s shoulders seemed to lurch in the darkness, and her entire body was wracked by a shiver. Harry’s fingers tightened around his wand in his pocket. He looked to Ron and Hermione. Both had reached for their wands as well.

“On three,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. They nodded.

“Ms Blishwick?” said Hermione loudly. “I was wondering. How did you know the cameras at the cathedral were broadcasting live?”

“ _One,_ ” murmured Harry.

“How?” Blishwick repeated.

“Yes. We only saw them for a moment. No one spoke to the cameramen. How did you know?”

“ _Two._ ”

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” cried Blishwick, turning with frightful speed.

They were ready for her. At the same moment, Harry, Ron and Hermione moved in perfect synchronization, casting the most powerful shield charms they could muster. Harry felt his wand slip from his fingers, but tightened his hold and managed to keep it in his grasp.

“Look at her eyes,” said Hermione urgently.

“She’s Imperiused,” Harry agreed.

Blishwick snarled at them. Without speaking, Hermione waved her wand and conjured a blinding yellow light, distracting the Auror. Harry and Ron cast twin stunners which combined to defeat Blishwick’s shield charm. She crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Her mouth was opened wide in shock.

“We shouldn’t have followed her,” said Harry, conjuring ropes to bind her hands and feet. “There was something off about her from the start.”

“Do you think whoever Imperiused her attacked the cathedral?” asked Ron.

“Never mind that now, we have to get out of here! There might be more of them!” said Hermione.

“How? We don’t know which door we came through.”

“That one.” Hermione pointed at the door directly to their left. A small gouge mark was barely visible on the doorknob. “I marked it when we first came in. That’s what you heard me whispering.”

“Brilliant!” Ron gave her an admiring squeeze.

But he had spoken too soon. There were a series of metallic clicks, and the eleven remaining doors opened to reveal cloaked figures with their wands raised.

Ron cursed under his breath. “You were saying?”

Harry’s mind was racing. He could see no way out of this. He had fought his way out of so many tight corners before. It seemed impossible that he would be undone by a half-baked plot to lure him to the Department of Mysteries. He had fallen for that once before, and once was enough.

How many of the cloaked figures could he take out with that fiery lasso curse Kingsley had taught him? Perhaps enough to give Ron and Hermione a chance to get away.

Before he could try, the entire Ministry shook on its foundations. Harry was knocked flat. He blinked stars from his eyes and managed with some effort to lift his head and assure himself that Ron and Hermione were conscious. Massive blocks of stone had fallen from the ceiling and crushed eight of the eleven cloaked figures into oblivion.

“ _Impedimenta,_ ” croaked Harry, pointing his wand at the remaining three. The spell hit one of them in the chest and sent them flying back into another, so that they both cracked their heads against the wall and collapsed. Ron hit the last figure with a stunner.

It was not until he tried to get up to assess the damage that Harry realized his own right leg was pinned under a rock the size of an icebox. Blood rushed to his head and with it searing pain. His stomach threatened to empty itself.

“ _Wingardium Leviosa,_ ” he said, flicking his wand. The boulder floated some distance away and fell to the ground with a thud. Harry’s trousers were already soaked in blood.

“Oh, Harry,” said Hermione, crawling over. By now her hair was so full of dust and rubble that she looked slightly crazed. “I can mend it, but it will hurt.”

Harry nodded, gritting his teeth. “Just do it.”

Hermione launched into a lyrical incantation while Ron stood to check that all of the cloaked figures were really unconscious. Harry could feel his broken bones knitting themselves back together. It burned like a red-hot brand.

“Don’t recognize any of them,” said Ron, throwing back hoods left and right. “Who the bloody hell do you reckon is after us now?”

“There are a lot of people with grudges against us,” said Hermione shakily. She siphoned the blood from Harry’s leg. “There. It might not be perfect, but you should be able to walk.”

“Thanks,” said Harry gratefully. He stood, testing it out, and found that he could lean most of his weight on the leg with only an uncomfortable twinge.

One of the wizards whose head had hit the wall stirred. Ron stunned him anew.

“C’mon,” he said. “We’ve got to clear out.”

Hermione opened the door with the gouge mark. To Harry’s immense relief, it led to the Ministry corridor they had vacated minutes before. He could hardly believe things had gone awry so fast.

“But what do we do now?” Hermione asked, sealing the door to the Department of Mysteries behind them for good measure. “I mean, if this many impostors could infiltrate the Ministry, they could be anywhere. We’re not safe here.”

“Kingsley’s office,” Ron suggested.

Harry shook his head. “Kingsley’s still in Amsterdam, remember? We need to leave the Ministry.”

“And go where? We can’t go back to the Burrow with maniacs after us. We’d lead them right to mum and dad.”

Harry agreed wholeheartedly. He thought of Grimmauld Place, but he had offered Sirius’s old family home up as a halfway house for families devastated by the war while he was abroad. It was likely to be crawling with people.

Hermione gasped.

“What?” said Harry, alarmed.

She pointed at his shoulder. Ron’s eyes widened. Harry looked down and barely stifled a groan.

A large beetle with square markings around its eyes was perched on his shoulder. It spread its wings and hovered in mid-air at his eye level, waiting expectantly. When Harry jerked his head in a curt nod, it flew ahead to the end of the corridor and into courtroom ten. The door to the empty courtroom was ajar. Harry followed the insect inside and crossed his arms.

“Hello Rita,” he said in a clipped tone.

“Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?” said Rita Skeeter, who stood in the space occupied by the beetle a moment ago. She looked ominously pleased with herself, her shade of lipstick an assault on the eyes and her every hair perfectly in place.

“What do you want?” asked Harry aggressively.

“To help, of course,” said Rita. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, it looks as though you need it.”

“Why would we ever trust you?” said Hermione.

“I don’t particularly care if you trust me, Little Miss Perfect,” said Rita, turning suddenly cold. “I’m offering my assistance. If you don’t want it, why don’t you try your luck out there with the multitudes hunting for you?”

“How are you going to help us?” asked Ron.

“I know a secret passageway out of the Ministry. How else would I have passed in and out unnoticed, after Little Miss Perfect threatened to use my secret against me? It’ll take you right out into Muggle London.”

“In exchange for what?” said Harry.

Rita’s smile turned wolfish. Her gold teeth glimmered in the torchlight lining the stone walls.

“You paint me as so crass, Harry,” she said in a voice of mock hurt. “I simply wonder whether, after I’ve helped you, you might find yourself in the market for a biographer.”

“No way!” Harry exclaimed.

“Harry, keep your voice down,” Hermione implored.

“I see,” said Rita, calmly examining her own fingernails. “Well, good luck out there, then…”

Harry gritted his teeth. “Fine,” he said desperately, “but I get to decide what you put in it—”

“Harry, Harry, Harry,” Rita tutted. “It’s hardly a subject’s place to impose on the creative process.”

“ _Fine!_ ” Harry repeated. “Fine. Write what you want. See if anyone believes you.”

“Oh, I intend to.” Rita’s grin widened. “I have your word?”

“You have my word that I’ll sign my biography rights to you if you get us out of here unseen,” said Harry. The words tasted bitter on his tongue. They shook hands.

“Excellent!” said Rita. “To business, then. Follow me.”

She led them around the Wizengamot benches to the minuscule chamber in the corner that was reserved for the scribe to stow his notes. Inside, she tapped her wand four times against the ceiling. A hole large enough to fit the average person opened up with a hollow creak.

It occurred to Harry that he might be about to step right into another trap. But some deep instinct told him unerringly that Rita Skeeter was the kind of person who worked alone. He nodded.

“After you,” said Rita.

Harry and Ron laced their hands together and hoisted Hermione up through the opening. Once she was safely through, she reached down to steady Ron as he stepped on Harry’s back for a boost. The two of them then pulled Harry up together. Rita simply transformed into a beetle again and flew up through the opening.

The cramped space around them sloped up into a dark staircase. Harry lit his wand and followed Rita as she led the way upwards. The walls were damp earth and radiated cold. Harry wondered how far underground they were. It seemed as though they climbed for hours, until at last they came to a wooden door. Harry hesitated, then tapped his wand against it four times. The door vanished.

The heavy London air that hit Harry’s nostrils had never been so welcome. He emerged into the street next to the visitor’s entrance and kept his head down as a precaution. He noticed that the streets seemed a mess, even by central London standards. In the distance a dumpster had been upended, its contents scattered across an intersection in the road. Several shop windows were broken. Had their exploits at the cathedral really had such an immediate impact?

“Right,” said Ron. “We can Disapparate from here and find somewhere we can make a better plan.”

“Do not Disapparate,” said Rita.

“What?” Ron spluttered, gaping at her as though she were insane. “What do you mean, don’t Disapparate? What are we supposed to do, walk?”

“Walk, run, fly,” said Rita. “Just don’t Apparate. They have ways of tracking Apparition.”

“That’s impossible,” said Hermione.

“Hang on,” Harry said. “They? You know what’s happening here, don’t you?”

“Don’t point your wand at me, you silly boy,” said Rita in a steely tone, for Harry had raised his wand in anger.

“Tell us what you know, then.”

But Hermione shook her head. “Not here,” she said. “We have to find cover.”

They ducked into a nearby coffee shop. Harry could not help feeling a strong sense of deja-vu. It might have been only yesterday that they had sat in a diner in Charing Cross road debating whether Harry could still have his Trace.

“Close down shop and take a lunch break,” Rita told the waitress, who looked only too happy to vacate the premises after Rita handed her a handful of Muggle fifty pound notes. What with the state of the streets, Harry would not be surprised if she stayed home altogether.

“ _Colloportus,_ ” said Rita, sealing the door.

“Start at the beginning,” said Harry.

Rita regarded him, looking pensive.

“If you want to blame someone, blame yourself,” she told him sourly.

“What?” Harry exclaimed. “I didn’t do anything!”

“ _Severus Snape: Scoundrel or Saint?_ sold very poorly after those public comments you made.”

At Kingsley’s behest, Harry had gone on the record with everything he had seen in Snape’s dying memories. The public outpouring of lamentations for Snape’s supposed suffering had been powerful and unnerving.

“I was telling the truth!” said Harry. “Snape was a spy for the Order all along.”

“Yes, yes, and we should all exalt him and ride unicorns to heap flowers on his grave,” said Rita impatiently. “The point is, I had to find myself a new subject, and fast. Little Miss Perfect, I suppose, is familiar with the Founder’s Crossroads?”

“The Founder’s Crossroad, the cross-continental journey Salazar Slyterin took after leaving Hogwarts,” Hermione recited at once. “Slytherin was supposed to have left behind some sort of sign portending to a great trouble that would plague Hogwarts.”

“The Chamber of Secrets?” said Ron. “But that’s old news.”

“No,” said Hermione. “This was something different. We know Slytherin blamed Gryffindor for what he saw as the school’s weakness. Apparently, he became very paranoid and claimed that Gryffindor had brought great evil down on the school. He went to the other wizarding schools of Europe to ask for help opposing Gryffindor, but he was turned away.”

“Was he, now?” said Rita with relish.

Hermione frowned. “Well, yes. All the history books say that—”

“You, Little Miss Perfect, with your elf crusade, must know above anyone that history books lie like a broken Sneakoscope.”

“You’ve found your next big scoop, then, I take it?” said Harry. “And it’s to do with the Founders? What, did Gryffindor steal the discovery of the twelve uses of Dragon’s blood from Ivor Dillonsby?”

“Oh, this is more than a scoop,” said Rita. “What I’ve uncovered will turn the wizarding world upside down, right side up, and upside down again.”

“Well? What is it, then?” said Ron.

“You don’t think I’d dish the dirt that easily, do you? Sufficed to say that those who believe Gryffindor was the most honourable wizard of his age are in for a rude awakening.”

“What does any of this have to do with us being chased through the Ministry?” interjected Hermione.

“Patience, Miss Prissy. That bushy hair isn’t crushing you flat just yet. As I was saying, I needed a scoop. In the course of my research I was brought into contact with some—shall we say—unsavory characters.”

“I’ll bet you were,” muttered Ron.

“Earlier today, as I waited to meet one such unsavory person in an equally unsavory establishment, I overheard a very intriguing conversation.” Rita drummed her lacquered nails against the table. “It seems that an attack against Saint Paul’s cathedral was impending. Naturally, being curious, I used my talents to follow those discussing the attack to its location.”

“You didn’t try to warn anyone?” said Hermione, outraged.

“The fun was already started when I arrived,” replied Rita, shrugging. “There was no time to raise an alarm. When I saw the news vans, I put two and two together and knew what was about to happen.”

“And you knew you’d be there to report on the results like the vulture you are.”

“I still don’t understand,” Ron interrupted. “Why is everyone so riled up about those video caramel things?”

“Video _cameras_ ,” corrected Hermione. “Ron, do you know what _live broadcast_ means? Anyone watching the news saw our duel _while it was happening_. There’s no taking it back. You can’t Obliviate twenty thousand people.”

“They can do that?” said Ron blankly.

“So you know who attacked us?” said Harry, steering the conversation back to the more pressing point.

“I haven’t a clue,” said Rita calmly. “I saw Lavinia Blishwick Disapparate with you, took a guess, and came right to the Ministry. Happily, I was right. You three have made yourselves some powerful enemies.”

“What a shock,” said Harry.

“This doesn’t explain why we can’t Disapparate,” added Ron.

Rita leaned back in her linoleum chair, a calculating look on her face.

“You think there’s a connection, don’t you?” said Hermione. “Between what happened to us today and your scoop?”

“The contacts I was to meet with today have been buzzing for some time about some kind of upheaval in the Muggle world,” admitted Rita grudgingly. “Supposed experiments with Muggle technology to interfere with magic in the Prime Minister’s office. Of course, it’s generally believed to be urban myth. These sort of stories crop up all the time. But as a reporter you learn to spot the ring of authenticity…”

“Hang on!” cried Ron, holding out his arms as though they had all begun speaking Gobbledygook. “What do you mean, Muggle experiments to interfere with Magic? Until an hour ago, the Muggles didn’t know about magic!”

“But the Muggle Prime Minister does.”

Ron looked more perplexed than ever.

“Ron, I gave you the _abridged_ version of _A History of Magic_ for your birthday,” said Hermione reproachfully.

“I remember vividly.”

“The Minister for Magic reveals himself to the Muggle Prime Minister at the start of his or her term,” Hermione went on.

“So Gryffindor supposedly brought some great evil on the school, and Slytherin went around Europe recruiting help to stop him. And now the Muggle Prime Minister is plotting to interfere with magic, and you think someone who knows about it attacked us at a funeral and in the Department of Mysteries,” Harry recapped. “I don’t see the connection.”

“I saw with my own eyes,” Rita told them. “A Muggle I followed into a room full of strange equipment pointed to a blinking circle on a computer grid and said ‘Look! One’s just Apparated!’”

“No, impossible,” said Hermione staunchly, though she was betrayed by a thoughtful crease in her brow.

“Well, he said ‘Look! One’s just Apparitioned!’ But his colleague corrected him.”

“Ridiculous,” said Ron, shaking his head. But was it? Harry had been witness to a thousand things he might once have thought impossible since the age of eleven. Was it so unlikely that technology might have its place in the sphere of impossible things?

“How would this mistake of Gryffindor’s have caused Muggles to plot against us now?” Harry asked. He did not like to think of Gryffindor in such ungenerous terms, but there were a hundred possible explanations for the Founder’s actions. And besides, Slytherin had not exactly been known as a paragon of integrity.

Rita’s gaze turned positively fiendish.

“That’s what you’re going to find out for me,” she said. “Your first stop, much like Slytherin’s, will be Durmstrang. And then Beauxbatons. It will be excellent colour for your biography. A bestseller, I daresay.”

“You can forget it,” Harry told her. “We’re not running errands for you. Stir up trouble on your own time.”

“You aren’t safe in the hands of the Ministry,” Rita countered. “I doubt you will want to return home and risk bringing your attackers down on your loved ones. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Muggles had struck up a nationwide manhunt for the three of you within the week. What, pray tell, do you plan to do if not leave the country until the local climate cools?”

Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at one another helplessly. There was far too much truth to Rita’s words.

“As a gesture of good faith, I will bring messages to all the redheaded friends you wish,” offered Rita. “You won’t want to risk sending them your little Patronus telegrams, what with the Muggle menace. I’ll bring you their responses when I meet you at Durmstrang.”

“We’ll… think about it,” Harry hedged.

Rita stood. “Oh, yes, think all you like. You’ll do it. You three are the hero type. I’ll see you at Durmstrang. You have until All Hallow’s Eve. And Weasley,” she added, “love the hat.”

***

MILLICENT

Two figures entered the smoke-filled barroom side by side. The first was a very old, very tall black woman with keen eyes. Everything about her, from the handsome cut of her midnight blue robes to the dignified way she waved to the barman, spoke of command. The second was an even older, stooped woman with flyaway silver hair and a childlike expression.

Together they took the booth closest to the bar and waved down a pair of drinks. The barman, a youth in patched-up robes that matched the décor of the tavern, tripped over himself in his haste to serve them.

“Usual order, Mrs Bagnold,” he said, placing two glasses of brandy on the table.

“Alastair, I absolutely forbid you to call me anything but Millicent,” replied the first woman, tipping him an impressive number of Galleons and winking. Alastair hurried away to hide his furious blush.

“That boy reminds me of my fourth husband,” said Millicent fondly. Seeing her companion fidget, she added, “Not to worry, Cake, dear, the others will be along in two shakes of a Krup’s tail.”

Proof of her prescience, the tavern doors opened again and a small group of patrons came through. Each one was more grey-haired and lined than the last. Alastair looked faint.

“Over here!” called Millicent, patting the seat next to hers in the booth. “What did I tell you? Lighting-Struck Tavern, best spot in all of Diagon. You sit yourself down right next to me, Becky.”

The most outlandishly dressed of the newcomers looked wryly at her host over square-rimmed spectacles. “I’ll thank you not to call me such nonsense, Millicent,” she said, but took the proffered seat. “And I am still not interested after all these years,” she added, swatting away the arm Millicent was attempting to wrap around her.

“Celestina prefers to hear her full name spoken as often as possible,” Millicent told Cake in a stage whisper. “She thinks it might conjure up autograph seekers. Becky, this is Cake,” she added to Celestina. “She is one of my oldest friends.”

“Cake?” said Celestina.

“Not her given name, naturally,” supplied Millicent, because Cake gave no sign that she intended to speak for herself. “It came about because of her love of lemon cakes. Isn’t that right, Cake?”

Cake nodded. “My cat is missing,” she said in a tone of vague confusion.

“Yes, yes, quite a shame,” said Millicent.

“The eyes,” said a grizzled wisp of a man, taking a seat next to Celestina and examining Cake closely. “She almost reminds me of…”

“Finish that sentence, Barnabus, and I’ll hex your lips shut,” said Millicent sharply. “Don’t even think it.”

For the first time, Cake looked slightly perturbed.

“Well, begging your pardon, Missus,” said Barnabus. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Cake, Barnabus Cuffe,” said Millicent. “Editor of the _Daily Prophet_ , and absolutely incapable of keeping his Senior Correspondents in check.”

“Ah, Millie,” said Barnabus without rancor, “we both know Skeeter thinks more highly of herself than the rest of the world combined. Let her have her fun, if it’ll keep us in Firewhiskey and roast beef.”

“Such integrity deserves a toast,” declared Millicent. “Alastair! Bring us a second round. And another to wash it down.”

She continued to effectuate introductions while Alastair hastened to prepare their drinks. First was Dragomir Gorgovitch of the Chudley Cannons, who looked rather like dejection personified. Gideon Crumb, a very small Malaysian man who played Bagpipes for the Weird Sisters, sat himself between Cake and Ambrosius Flume, owner of Honeydukes sweet shop. Griselda Marchbanks summoned a barstool, which she climbed with some effort. Gwenog Jones of the Holyhead Harpies took a seat as far from Gorgovitch as the room allowed.

“Poor Dragomir lost a bet to the Transylvanian Minister for Magic in 1973,” Millicent explained to Cake. “He’s had to throw every match he’s played in since. The Canons are the only team who’ll take him anymore.”

“ _Let’s just keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best_ ,” Gorgovitch chanted the Chudley Cannons slogan dully.

“Is Twycross coming?” asked Gwenog Jones, eyeing Gorgovitch with disdain.

“Old Destination, Determination, Deliberation?” said Millicent with a laugh. “No, no, he’s in Saint Mungo’s recovering from a bad case of spontaneous Disapparition. Can’t keep himself in one place any longer. I always told him it would happen if he kept on for too long. We’ve only one more person to wait for. Ah, here he is now!”

The door opened to reveal a round-faced man in ill-fitting violet robes, whose age ran contrary to form. He was still relatively youthful, but looked far more downtrodden even than Gorgovitch.

“Ludo, so good of you to come!” exclaimed Millicent, ignoring his discomfort and the obvious dissent from many of her other guests.

“You invited _Bagman?_ ” scoffed Gwenog Jones. “Merlin’s beard, should I hide my gold earrings, just in case?”

“I was under the impression that several weeks remained on his probation at the German Ministry,” squeaked Griselda.

“I called in a few favors and had the probation terminated early,” said Millicent. “Ludo is here at my request, because I believe he is in contact with some people who may be of assistance to us. Now, isn’t this a treat? The old guard all back together—Except for Slughorn, of course, who could not be dislodged from his comfortable retirement with a thousand summoning charms.”

“The old guard!” said Gwenog scornfully. “Not fine enough a guard to rate membership in the Order of the Phoenix, apparently.”

“The Order of the Phoenix, pah!” said Millicent, absently patting the back of Cake’s hand. “Who would have them? The Order was all sweat and no flash. We know better than anyone that real results require a little greasing of the wheels.”

“Results?” said Celestina. “Millicent, you talk as if we’re back in the midst of the first war.”

Millicent Bagnold steepled her fingers and surveyed them all. The group’s attention sharpened.

“Two hours ago,” she said, “the Boy Who Lived exposed our world on live Muggle television. Every Ministry on the globe is going to be demanding an explanation. And the Muggle world will all the more so. The days to come are going to be… unpleasant.”

“What, you mean that trifling little riot?” said Barnabus. “In my time we called that Friday night at the Hog’s Head.”

“Babby, ever the optimist,” said Millicent. “You never could sense an oncoming storm. My friends, the Statue of Secrecy is fallen. That is the plain truth of the matter.”

“Impossible,” said Gwenog Jones dismissively. “The Ministry will simply make use of the Obliviator squad.”

“And Obliviate the hundreds of thousands of people worldwide who have already seen the truth? And the millions more who will hear it from them? I think not.”

“Then what are we to do?” said Alastair, who had unexpectedly sidled up to the table. “What’s to become of us?”

At this, Cake looked up and gave a gap-toothed smile.

“We have a plan,” she said.


	5. The Letters From Everywhere

DRACO

Draco Malfoy was counting the warts on the face of his interrogator. He made it all the way to eleven before he became aware that the man was staring at him expectantly, clearly awaiting confirmation of the terms he had just outlined.

“Are we clear, Mr Malfoy?” the interrogator repeated.

“As Veritaserum,” said Draco with every ounce of disdain he could muster.

“Why don’t you repeat the terms back to me so I know that you’ve fully absorbed them?”

“Why don’t you repeat them again so I can be sure I haven’t missed anything?” replied Draco through gritted teeth.

The interrogator pulled an aggrieved expression which contorted his face into a grimace. Draco wrinkled his nose. He disliked this new Ministry watchdog even more than the last.

“Do you think this is meant to be amusing, Mr Malfoy?” said the interrogator. “Do you think these visits are meant to be a leisure time for you? Because if that is your impression, perhaps it is time to revisit the terms of your probation.”

Draco gripped the edge of his chair until his knuckles turned white, hating the interrogator. Neither Draco nor his father had served time in Azkaban after the war. With their pockets full, the Wizengamot had come to the inevitable conclusion that the Malfoys had been the victims of coercion. Still, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had dug in its heels: Draco and Lucius were to be assigned _handlers_ , and attend _progress meeting_. Each one of these trips to the Ministry had been a humiliating spectacle. Meanwhile, Potter paraded himself around the Auror Office receiving medals for eating ham sandwiches and refilling inkwells.

Just when Draco had thought the Wizarding world could sink no lower, the owls had started to arrive. Only a few at first, and then more with each passing day, until some mornings dozens of post owls could be glimpsed roosting in the trees outside Malfoy Manor. The letters came mostly from _Daily Prophet_ readers dissatisfied with the very brief press coverage of the Malfoy trials. Messages spelled out with cut up letters from newspapers and books issued dire warnings, advising Lucius, Draco, and even occasionally Narcissa to leave the country and take their dishonor with them. A few had contained unsavory surprises such as Salamander blood or a single sprig of Devil’s Snare which had wound its way up Draco’s hand and attempted to break his thumb.

One letter had contained a curse that had left its courier owl in such ill health that it had dropped dead on their front door before the message could be delivered. At this Draco’s mother had grown frantic and forbidden Draco to read any of the letters. There were too many to read, in any case. The sight of them made Draco feel simultaneously furious and desperate for action. If there was no way to trace the letters, there must be some way to stop them from arriving altogether, and put an end to the indignity of having a flock of barn owls descend upon the Manor each day.

That morning, while his mother had been asleep, Draco had slipped out early and snatched an envelope from one of the filthy birds’ talons. It was much larger than all the rest, with an ornate seal of gold wax, and looked sufficiently threatening. He had brought it with him to the Ministry.

“One,” said Draco impatiently, “that I am not under any circumstances to have contact with anyone formerly identified as a Death Eater, whether they’ve been cleared of all charges or not. Two, that my correspondence is to be read and my transportation by Floo or Portkey is to be monitored at all times. Three, that I’m not to use any of the ‘ _dangerous_ ’ spells listed on the leaflet I’ve been provided.”

The interrogator narrowed his eyes. “Very well, Mr Malfoy—”

“Sir!”

A witch had burst through the door, the absurd conflagration of pins and bows atop her head half undone. Three violet memos circled her aggressively, taking it in turns to jab at her face and arms.

“Not now, Wakanda,” said the interrogator, scandalized. “I am in the middle of an important—”

“Sir, there’s been an incident,” Wakanda insisted. She leaned forward to whisper to him urgently. Draco thought he heard the words “ _Potter_ ” and “ _Muggle_ ” and stifled a groan. No doubt Potter had gone and rescued some village or other, and Draco’s entire interrogation would be delayed while the whole of the Ministry rushed off to throw a ceremony in appreciation.

“There must be some mistake,” the interrogator was saying in a low voice. Wakanda shook her head. “Very well. Mr Malfoy, you will wait here. There are pressing matters I must attend to. We will resume this interview when I return.”

Draco sneered at the interrogator’s retreating back. He wondered if there was some loophole that would permit him to leave if he was made to wait too long. Perhaps he could demand to see the Head of the Auror Office and show him the letter, which he was almost certain contained another curse. Gawain Robards had always been friendly with Abraxas Malfoy, back when Draco’s grandfather had been a regular feature at Ministry galas. With any luck, he could even convince Robards to track down a few of the anonymous letter-writers and give them a good scare.

The door opened again. Draco heaved a sigh.

“Oh, good,” he began. “Can we proceed- Oh. What are you doing here, Rothfang?”

The visitor shut the door behind him. After the Weasley clan, Draco had seldom met a greater laughing stock than the eldest Rothfang, who had somehow managed to inveigle himself a job as a Healer despite being born a bigger Squib than Argus Filch. The remaining Rothfangs bore the embarrassment with as much dignity as they could, but Draco’s father had often commented—with something akin to satisfaction—on what a burden it must have been to them.

“Do not move,” said Rothfang, shuffling his feet nervously.

Draco raised an eyebrow at his tone. The day a Squib ordered him around would be a sorry day indeed.

“What do you want? Is the interrogation being pushed back? I don’t have all day.”

“Do not move,” Rothfang repeated. He pulled a bottle of swirling blue potion from his pocket. “If you move, I will use this to activate the curse in the envelope you are carrying.”

An icy trickle of fear ran down Draco’s back. If he had been Potter, he would have charged Rothfang and tackled him to the ground out of sheer luck, and the entire Office would have applauded. Draco stood and retreated several paces, gripping his wand.

“Don’t do that,” Rothfang warned, reaching for the cap on the bottle. The hood of his cloak was raised, but though Draco could not see his eyes, he could hear the threat in his voice.

“What are you talking about? What curse? How do you know I’ve got an envelope?”

“Because I sent it. You are going to follow me. And do it quietly, or the result will be unpleasant. The explosive curse I had placed on the parchment is potent.”

Draco summoned the eerie calm of Occlumency in order to focus on his options. Rothfang was a Squib. He could not defend himself if Draco simply summoned the bottle. In fact, the entire scenario seemed absurd. Draco lifted his wand.

“The bottle is enchanted,” Rothfang said as though he had read Draco’s mind. “It will shatter in anyone’s hands but my own.”

“Are you mad?” Draco spat. “You’re going to kidnap me in the middle of the Ministry? What for?”

“It is a part of the plan,” said Rothfang solemnly. “I knew you would appeal to the Ministry to stop the letters from coming to your home. I sent an auspicious envelope to be sure you would select my curse. I did all this, planned every bit of it.”

Draco thought there was a small strain of pride in Rothfang’s voice. The man had clearly gone mad.

“The Aurors will be back any minute, and I’ll tell them exactly what you’ve done,” said Draco.

“They will not be back. The Statute of Secrecy has been—”

Draco lunged. Before Rothfang could react, Draco had cast a banishing charm that sent the blue bottle flying at the door and, at the same moment, kicked Rothfang’s feet out from under him. Unfortunately, Rothfang reacted quickly, grasping the front of Draco’s robes to steady himself. The envelope came tumbling out, and Rothfang’s eyes widened in panic.

There was a hissing noise. Draco turned to see the blue potion sliding down the wood of the door, which was emitting angry purple vapor. Trust a Healer to drum up the most arcane way possible of committing blackmail.

Draco picked up the envelope carefully and opened the door to toss it into the corridor. Next, he pointed his wand directly between Rothfang’s eyes. Anything beyond common, everyday spells was listed on the Ministry leaflet of incantations Draco was banned from using in less than life-threatening circumstances, including stunning. But when the Aurors saw the potion, they would be forced to admit that a threat had been evident.

Draco kicked open the door and said, “After you.”

Rothfang’s eyes darted to and fro, one clear and one covered in a milky white cataract. He looked crazed. At last he jumped up and ran into the corridor.

“Help!” he shouted. “Quickly! Someone help! Malfoy is attempting to escape!”

“What are you doing?” Draco hissed, chasing him angrily into the corridor. “Shut up, you stupid man!”

“The Malfoy boy is casting curses! Come quickly!”

“ _Silencio!_ ” Draco slashed his wand through the air. The spell missed by inches.

Two Aurors came sprinting down the corridor with their wands out. Draco swore under his breath and made to raise his hands in the air in a gesture of compliance, but he was still holding his wand. The Aurors yelped in alarm and cast twin stunners. Draco jumped out of the way.

A second later, he realized his mistake. The stunners hit the cursed envelope, which exploded with the force of a hundred stampeding trolls. Draco lost all sense of direction for a moment as the Ministry shook on its foundations. There was a blinding white light, and all at once the floor gave way beneath his feet. Draco plummeted to the floor below and landed with a sickening crunch, searing pain shooting up his left leg from his ankle. All around him cubicles were on fire. Screams echoed left and right. He might have been back in the cellar of the Manor with the Dark Lord standing over him…

Somehow Draco found himself sprawled on a pile of rubble with his wand lying on the floor under a nearby desk, having rolled away. He attempted to drag himself upright, but his head was in agony and his ears were ringing. He felt something move behind him and turned to have a look. The sudden movement caused his stomach to roll.

There was no Potter charging to the rescue on a broomstick this time. The shape behind him stumbled to the desk and picked up his wand. It was Rothfang, bloodied yet intact. He moved his lips, but Draco could not hear what he said through the ringing in his ears.

Rothfang stowed Draco’s wand away and hauled him to his feet. Draco kicked with all his might when the Healer began dragging him away amidst the chaos, but his broken ankle impeded him.

“Go… to hell,” Draco croaked.

Rothfang shoved him into the lift at the end of the corridor. The entirety of the third floor was too preoccupied with the destruction of their offices to notice or interfere. When the lift doors clanged shut, Rothfang threw Draco roughly against the wall and bound his hands and feet with rope. He worked methodically, tightening the knots until the rope dug into Draco’s skin, all without magic. Draco had some concern, among everything else, that the lift would not work after the explosion. Yet it rumbled to life and began to descend. The cool voice that usually announced the floor numbers did not speak.

Draco’s heart sank when they passed the Atrium level and kept moving downwards. Rothfang was taking him to the Department of Mysteries for some nefarious purpose. He might be experimented upon. He was not yet through being locked up with a madman.

When the lift doors opened onto the lowermost corridor, Rothfang held him in a stranglehold and resumed frogmarching him along. Draco’s head ached so badly that he felt like bloody Scarhead, about to collapse from the agony. He continued to struggle in vain until they reached the door to the Department of Mysteries.

“Where did you get that curse?” he asked. His throat felt like sandpaper.

“You will not speak,” said Rothfang. He gave Draco a kick in the shins to emphasize his point. Draco screamed as the pain in his ankle redoubled.

Once they were through the door, Draco blinked. They stood in a perfectly circular room surrounded by twelve identical doors. More noticeably, however, sizeable chunks of the ceiling had collapsed and knocked out a number of men in Unspeakable’s robes, who in fact were not Unspeakables at all. Draco knew most employees of the Department of Mysteries by name or reputation, and saw not one familiar face. And lying among the heap was Lavinia Blishwick, renowned ex-Auror, equally unconscious.

Rothfang looked incensed.

“So the plan was not executed,” he said, apparently to himself. “This is very bad news. Very bad.”

Draco concentrated on not vomiting from the pain. The room began to spin, and the contents of Draco’s stomach threatened to make a return appearance.

“Very well,” Rothfang muttered as the room spun faster and faster. “Very well. Though I could have done the job correctly myself. I did tell them.” He looked at Draco. “Your turn will have to wait, I’m afraid.”

He opened the door to their immediate left and half-pushed, half-carried Draco through it. On the other side was another corridor lined with torches. Rothfang used a peculiar sort of bronze skeleton key to open the last door on the right. They entered a small room with a cot, a pantry, and an empty Grindylow tank sitting in the corner. He deposited Draco on the cot with some effort.

“Do not under any circumstances free them from their cage,” said Rothfang absently, gesturing to the tank.

“You can’t do this,” rasped Draco. His throat felt like sandpaper. “Do you realize who my father is?”

Rothfang seemed pleased. “I most assuredly do.”

“There will be people—dozens of people—looking for me. Any minute now, if they haven’t started searching already. You won’t get away with this.”

By way of response, Rothfang pulled Draco’s wand from his pocket and snapped it in two over his knee.

Draco uttered a choking noise and toppled from the cot in an attempt to leap at Rothfang. He felt as though someone had just reached inside him and plucked out his entrails. He was helpless without his wand. He had only just become accustomed to the new one his mother had ordered him from abroad after the war. More than anything else that had occurred that day, this transgression of Rothfang’s enraged him.

“Remain on the cot,” Rothfang ordered, lifting him back up.

“I’ll see you rot in Azkaban for this!” Draco cried.

“I think not. Now listen carefully. This is your new home from now on. You will not be leaving the Department again. Make peace with this, and we will save ourselves a lot of tedious escape attempts. You may even grow to like it. Cassandra has, haven’t you?”

He looked into the other corner next to the pantry, where something Draco had mistook for a pile of soiled robes stirred. The pile of robes lifted its head and smiled toothlessly.

The nightmare of this day continued to worsen. Draco shuffled to the side, disgusted. The woman in the corner was so old that her skin had grown practically translucent. Her eyelids were onionskin flaps over ancient, unseeing eyes. She had a crone’s withered hands, and only a few wisps of candyfloss hair covering the bald patches on her head.

“Who in Merlin’s name…?”

“This is your new flatmate,” said Rothfang pleasantly. “Cassandra Trelawney.”

“Cassandra Trelawney is dead.”

“I think you will find that Cassandra will disagree with you. Won’t you, Cassandra?”

The old woman nodded, smiling at Rothfang.

“Cassandra is my special pet,” said Rothfang with satisfaction. “And now so are you.”

This time Draco did vomit. He leaned over the edge of the cot and retched until his stomach clenched painfully. Rothfang watched him.

“What a shame you’ve no wand to clean that up,” he said softly. He strode to the doorway and added, “Goodbye.”

The door closed behind him and, a moment later, Draco heard the click of the lock.

Draco thought with impotent rage of the unfairness of it all. He had done everything he was meant to do. He had served the Dark Lord, cornered Dumbledore, kept his family alive, suffered all the indignities of the war, and the ones that came after the war. This was his reward. He thought he might be sick all over again.

The old woman was watching him.

“What are you doing here?” Draco asked her suspiciously. “Who are you, really?”

She said nothing, and continued to look at him.

“Stupid old bat,” Draco muttered to himself. “If you’re Cassandra Trelawney, why don’t you tell me why we’re here and where Rothfang just took off to?”

In a voice that was barely audible, the old woman said, “He has gone to kill the Boy Who Lived.”


	6. The Prince's Tail

HARRY

“Press down on the gas pedal,” said Ron. “C’mon, give it more than that!”

“I _know_ how to drive, Ron,” said Hermione for the fourth time.

Harry, who had never been allowed near a car in his life unless the Dursleys absolutely could not help it, sat in the back seat and kept his eyes peeled on the deserted streets. Here and there he spotted gaggles of looters, though the worse of the riots seemed to have died down. The sun was just beginning to creep low over the horizon, and the city was eerily dark without the lights from the many shop windows which had been ravaged. Harry, Ron and Hermione had debated the best way to begin their journey to Durmstrang, after an even longer debate concerning whether to accept Rita’s errand. They had settled on renting a car from a seedy dealership with money withdrawn from an account of Hermione’s at an automated bank teller, because Hermione categorically refused to simply steal a vehicle. They dropped the money on the counter on their way out. Harry strongly suspected that it would be gone within the hour.

“I suppose it’s a blessing, now, that your parents stayed in Australia,” said Ron after a tense silence.

From what Harry had gathered, Mr and Mrs Granger had reacted with alarm to the news that their daughter had altered their memories to send them safely to Asutralia during the war. Their reconciliation had been tense when Hermione had first reversed the enchantment, but the relationship had gradually improved. Although they still called one another Wendell and Monica Wilkins in moments of absent-mindedness, Hermione’s parents had long since accepted her intentions and forgiven her. Yet they had stayed in Australia, where they claimed to have settled in nicely.

“Yes, they’ll be safe there,” said Hermione. When Ron frowned, she added, “Your family will be safe too. No one knows exactly what’s happened with the wizarding world at large yet. There’s no reason they would be in any sort of trouble because of us.”

“Unless they come looking for us.”

“Rita will give them our messages.”

Ron scoffed. “She might crumple up our messages and toss them in the rubbish bin. For all we know Skeeter could be working with whoever’s out to get us.”

“But if that were the case, why would she help us escape?” Harry asked.

“Who knows? All this stuff about not Apparating…” Ron shook his head. “D’you buy it?”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Hermione. “You know that electronic devices and things don’t work in Hogwarts? All the magic overwhelms the technology.”

Harry straightened in his seat. “So you’re saying…”

“If the Muggle government had some devices—something sensitive enough—then they would know when really powerful magic happened, like someone Disapparating, because the devices would go haywire.”

“But that would mean there were devices like this _everywhere_ ,” said Ron. “The Muggles would have to have been planning this for _ages_.” He turned around to look at Harry, who felt certain he looked as bemused as Ron did.

They drove on for over an hour through the sprawling suburban districts, Ron and Hermione bickering continuously over Hermione’s driving, until they came to a barricade in the road. A pair of construction vehicles had been overturned and lay on their side in the middle of an intersection, blocking all escape routes. A pair of wizards in Ministry robes strolled out from behind the barricade with their wands raised.

“There are only two of them,” said Ron, squinting around the construction vehicles to see if anyone else was waiting to spring out. “We can take them.”

“If we do, it’ll tell everyone we came this way,” said Harry. “Let’s see who it is first.”

They disembarked from the car, wands at the ready. The Ministry wizards’ jaws dropped. Harry’s heart sank the moment he realized who they were. The shorter of the two was Aldous Hitchins, a mild-mannered member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. The taller man, however, was Marcus Flint, Junior Undersecretary to the Head of Magical Games and Sports and the ex-captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team.

“Well, well, well, what have we here?” said Flint in a voice that was more apprehensive than boastful.

“What’re _you_ doing here, Flint?” barked Ron. Hermione jabbed him in the arm.

“Ministry’s been attacked,” Flint announced. “They’ve got us patrolling all the major roads out of the city. Bloody waste of time. You lot gotten denser since Hogwarts? What’re you doing driving round in a Muggle car?”

“Evening, Hitchins,” said Harry loudly, ignoring the question.

Hitchins looked uneasy. “We’ve been ordered to bring you in, Potter. Weasley and Granger as well.”

“On whose authority?” Hermione asked.

Hitchins and Flint exchanged glances.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” Flint advised them.

“It doesn’t have to be difficult at all,” Hermione said. “We haven’t done anything wrong. We just want to be on our way.”

Before she could finish speaking, Harry made a slashing movement with his wand. His spell narrowly missed Flint, crashing into the side-view mirror of the vehicle behind him. Flint responded with surprising speed, casting a stunning spell that Harry only just ducked in time to avoid.

He did not know what made him say it, but before he could think, Harry huffed, “Your aim’s improved.”

Hermione’s mouth opened in horror. Flint remained immobile for a moment, dumbstruck. Then, incredibly, he cracked a smile.

“Reckon I could fly circles around you any day, Potter,” he said.

“Not a chance,” Harry retorted.

There was a moment of charged silence. Flint looked over his shoulder. “Go on, then.”

“W—What?” Hitchins spluttered in alarm. “We’re meant to bring them in!”

“I’m not taking orders from a damn Squib,” said Flint. He spat at the street. “What the hell’s his Department doing ordering ours around, anyway? Bloody disgrace.”

“Squibs are every bit as essential to the Ministry—” Hermione began shrilly, but Ron stomped on her foot.

“Let’s go,” he muttered, edging towards the car.

“Hurry,” Flint snapped. “Before I change my mind.”

Harry did not know what to say. A simple thanks seemed inappropriate. He nodded, returning to the car. As he closed the door, Hermione raised her wand and waved it through the air in a sweeping arc. The barricade behind Flint jumped aside.

“I know,” she told Ron before the latter could speak. She floored the gas pedal, and the car sped through the barricade.

Half an hour later found the car pulling into the lot of a grey, windowless motel. The day’s events had left Harry drained of all energy. He looked forward to a soft pillow and the oblivion of sleep for a few blissful hours before he had to think of what lay ahead.

“We can drive to Dover in the morning and take a ferry to the mainland,” said Hermione. “It’ll look suspicious if we try to travel to Calais in the middle of the night.”

“Almost makes you miss old Perkins’s tent,” said Ron heavily as they crossed the car lot.

Before they could enter the lobby, Hermione spun around, shoving Harry back.

“Harry, put on your cloak.”

“You’re both wanted too,” Harry protested. “It’s not just me.”

“Someone has to check us in. We’ll be all right. You do have the cloak on you, don’t you?”

Harry always had the cloak. He threw it over his head with misgivings and slipped into the motel vestibule, where he hung back as Ron and Hermione approached the front desk. He did not want to draw suspicion by accidentally tripping over his own trainers. To his surprise, Hermione made a vain attempt to smooth her hair down and threw her arm around Ron’s shoulders.

“Names?” Harry heard the elderly attendant ask them in a bored voice.

“Romilda Vane,” said Hermione without hesitation, making a show of resting her head on Ron’s shoulder.

Harry glanced out the window at their car. It was the sort of vehicle his Uncle Vernon would have scoffed at. They would have to find a different one if they were to keep traveling by non-magical means all the way to Durmstrang, otherwise the plates would be bound to give them away. It was surreal, after so many years of immersing himself in the Wizarding world, to be confronted once more with Muggle concerns.

Ron and Hermione returned, holding a set of keys, and beckoned for Harry to follow them up a rickety staircase to the second level. Ron was sniggering.

“What happened?” asked Harry in an undertone.

Hermione’s cheeks were a faint pink. “The attendant barely even looked at us. She just gave us the room keys.”

“You were very convincing, though,” said Ron. “You should join the Aurors, you’d get top marks in Concealment and Disguise—”

“We’re here,” Hermione cut him off.

She opened the door to their room as Harry removed his Invisibility cloak. Ron made a derisive noise. The room was roughly the size of Harry’s old broom cupboard bedroom and twice as dusty. A double bed had been jammed in between the wall and a splintered wardrobe. The carpet bore numerous cigarette burns. The shutters on the window could not be drawn up without waging outright war on the family of moths roosting on the windowsill.

“There had better not be spiders living under the floorboard,” Ron grumbled.

“Don’t be silly, if there were spiders they’d be nesting inside the mattress,” said Hermione mildly, the corners of her mouth twitching.

The pair of them took a seat on the edge of the bed and Hermione began casting charms to make the space a fraction more presentable.

“I don’t suppose any of us happen to have food in our pockets?” said Ron.

Hermione shook her head, vanishing the crumbs from their bedside table with a flick of her wand.

“We were only supposed to be at the funeral for a few hours,” she said. “All I had was my wand.”

“Just like old times, eh?” said Ron, turning the knob on a Muggle radio on the bedside table.

“Don’t,” said Harry abruptly. “We want to be able to hear people coming.”

Ron and Hermione looked at him. Harry found their casual attitude strangely wearing. He closed the door and leaned back against the wardrobe, crossing his arms.

“Harry,” Hermione began cautiously, “we know you’re tired, but—”

“I’m not tired,” Harry interrupted. It was perfectly true. His momentary listlessness had evaporated, replaced by a desire to keep moving. He did not like being cooped up here.

“That’s not what I meant. You spent years looking forward to confronting Voldemort once and for all. It was difficult for all of us to adjust to the idea that we could have new goals after that. A new future. And now, just when we’d started getting used to it, here’s another crisis—”

“It’s not the same.”

“Of course not, but it must remind you of everything you went through with Voldemort.”

“Just give it a rest, Hermione,” said Ron, eyeing Harry’s expression.

Hermione bit her lip.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Harry muttered.

“I can conjure you a mattress,” Hermione offered.

“Don’t bother. I’m used to it. I’ll take first watch.”

Harry slid down the wardrobe and took a seat on the floor, facing the door resolutely to forestall all further comment. He heard Ron shuffling his pillow, then, five minutes later, the snores he remembered from the Hogwarts dormitories. The soft light of the worn Muggle lamp colored the walls sickly yellow and Harry knew that Hermione, too, was unable to sleep. She turned the pages of a stray catalogue left behind by the room’s previous occupants at a slow pace that began to lull Harry into exhaustion. Shortly thereafter, Hermione began to hum absently to herself. It was an old familiar tune Harry was too tired to place. He fought with the droop of his eyelids until he was distracted quite suddenly by a yelp.

“What is it?” he asked, drawing his wand, for Ron had sat straight up on the bed and was rubbing his eyes.

But Ron turned to Hermione. “Were you singing _Weasley is our King?_ ”

“No,” she said hastily.

“Yeah, you were!” said Harry. He could recognize the tune now.

“I—I didn’t realize I was doing it,” said Hermione, flushing.

Ron grinned. “No, no, please carry on.” He leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. “Let’s hear it.”

“Oh, honestly—”

“ _Weasley can save anything, he didn’t let the Quaffle in…_ ”

“Ron—”

“ _Weasley’s got a spider on his chin_ ,” Harry chimed in, laughing when Ron immediately flailed in a panic to dislodge the spider.

“That was not funny!” Ron exclaimed.

Hermione was laughing so hard that there were tears in her eyes. Harry shook, clutching at a stich in his side. Ron stood.

“Right, you two are clearly off your nut,” he said staunchly. “I’ll take second watch.”

Harry had to concede that he would be no use to anyone with his eyes half shut. Hermione tossed him a blanket, and he rolled to the side to make room for Ron to settle by the door. He was still grinning faintly when he rested his head against the crook of his elbow and fell asleep.

The following morning, summer came to a sodden and complete end. Harry awoke to the sound of rain beating against the window. The first thing he noticed was that his teeth were chattering. The windowpanes had frosted over as a steely wind howled outside, and a quilt of low-hanging clouds blocked the sun entirely from view, plunging the countryside into a gloomy, permanent dusk. The second thing Harry noticed was Ron and Hermione standing at the window, brushing the frost away and gazing grimly down at the car lot.

“We’ve got a problem, mate,” said Ron when Harry stirred.

Harry joined him and peered down at their car. He swore under his breath. The lot was swarming with Ministry wizards. A number of them were examining the car and gesticulating to one another. Still more were interrogating the ill-humored attendant from the night before. Harry saw her shrug and point vaguely upwards in the direction of their room.

Footsteps were coming down the corridor.

“I never thought they’d send so many,” said Ron. “There’s no way we can get out of here without Apparating. I say we chance it.”

“But if we Apparate they might be able to track us,” said Hermione.

“They’ve already tracked us here, what difference does it make?”

“There might be another way.” Hermione stood back, evaluating their appearance critically. “They’re looking for fugitives. We can’t look like we’re on the run. Harry, give Ron your cloak. Ron, get rid of that ridiculous collar.”

Harry handed over his cloak and immediately felt as though he had been doused in icy water. Ron removed the ruffled collar he had been sporting since the funeral. The footsteps in the corridor were getting closer.

“Harry, can you follow closely enough behind us that you can slip through the door while wearing the cloak?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Hermione—”

“Excellent. Put the cloak on. You trust me, don’t you?”

Harry and Ron nodded.

Hermione took a deep breath. “Then keep close and follow my lead.”

They all three put their hoods up, and Hermione threw the door to the corridor open with a bang.

“You won’t catch me trying to take us on a nice family outing again!” she shrieked, shoving Ron bodily out of the room. “Why don’t you just stay home, if you miss Winky’s cooking so much?”

“W—What?” spluttered Ron.

“Maybe if you had any gumption at the office we could have afforded to go somewhere nice instead of this! Crawling with filthy Muggles…”

“Oh,” said Ron, cottoning on. “Well I’d get on a lot better at work if you weren’t shouting at me about—about knitting patterns every day!”

“Oi!” yelled a Ministry wizard from the down the corridor. Squinting from beneath the cloak, Harry thought it was Thurkell, a brutish member of the Accidental Magical Reversal Squad. “Keep it down! We’re in the middle of an important investigation.”

“Running off with blood-traitors—” Hermione ploughed on, reminding Harry forcibly of the portrait of Sirius’s mother that had once hung in Grimmauld Place.

“Always nagging—” Ron retorted, waving his arms dramatically.

“Disgrace—”

Thurkell and his team had turned their backs resolutely now, and were waving their wands to open a pair of nearby rooms. When Thurkell had vanished inside the first room, Harry ushered Ron and Hermione down the staircase to the empty vestibule.

“All right, you can stop,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder.

“Now you’ve gone and upset cousin Barmy!” said Ron, throwing his hands in the air. Hermione rolled her eyes. “All right, all right. I can’t believe that worked. What now?”

“Well, we can’t go through the car lot,” said Hermione. But there’s a forested area behind the motel. If we could just cut through it…”

Throwing back the hood of the cloak, Harry raised his wand and cast _Muffliato_ to prevent any of the Ministry wizards from hearing their escape and chasing after them. Next, he simply stepped around the attendant’s desk and cast a powerful curse to gouge through the back wall. He could see the expanse of trees on the other side, only a few paces away. Ron and Hermione took out their wands to help him until they had carved an opening of sufficient size in the wall. One after the other, they crawled through it.

“ _Reparo_ ,” said Harry once they were clear of the wall. The opening sealed itself, good as new.

“I suppose that was the fastest way to do it,” said Hermione, sounding impressed.

“Come on,” said Harry, taking off for the woods at a sprint.

They did not stop running until they were well past the treeline. When, at last, they could glimpse no trace of the motel through the branches, they stopped to catch their breath.

“How did they find us?” Ron asked hoarsely, leaning against the trunk of a gnarled pine.

“Anyone could have seen us driving through the city and reported back to the Ministry,” said Hermione.

“I’ll bet it was Flint. We should’ve stunned him when we had the chance.”

“It’s too late for that now. All we can do is keep a low profile—Oh!”

Harry whipped around with his wand raised at Hermione’s exclamation, but she was looking down and smiling. Harry’s eyes widened. A very familiar, bandy-legged ginger cat with a squashed face had padded its way into their midst and was winding itself around Hermione’s ankles.

“Blimey,” said Ron. “Is that Crookshanks?”

“I left him at the Burrow when we went looking for Horcruxes, and I never saw him after that,” said Hermione wonderingly. “I always thought he ran away.” She lifted a purring Crookshanks into her arms. “Goodness, do you think he’s been wandering the countryside this whole time?”

“Nah, he looks well fed,” said Ron. “Maybe someone adopted him. Wonder how he ended up here, though.”

“I think he wants to show us something,” said Harry.

Crookshanks had jumped from Hermione’s arms and was standing a few feet apart from them, tail in the air, blinking expectantly. Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged looks, then made to approach the cat. At once, Crookshanks departed at a trot. They followed him through the increasingly dense woods, stepping in waterlogged patches of moss and shivering. The further they ventured into the forest, the thicker the canopy became overhead, until their surroundings were dark as night. All Harry could see to guide his way was Crookshanks’s ginger tail bobbing from side to side.

At long last they came to a clearing and stared ahead in amazement. Crookshanks had led them to a small wooden cottage, complete with chimney and vegetable garden. The windows stood glazed and empty. Harry cast _Homenum Revelio_ and felt the spell wash silently over the clearing. They were alone. Unable to believe their luck, Harry, Ron and Hermione entered the cottage.

It was a quaint, well-kept abode consisting of two rooms. The combined kitchen and sitting room led to a bedroom with two cots and a bookcase. A candle sitting atop the bookcase had burned down to the wick. The floors, though ancient and worn, were clean. It was evident that someone had very recently been living here.

“Do you think it’s safe?” Hermione asked. “The owner might return.”

“Good old Crookshanks must have brought us here for a reason,” Ron reasoned. “It’s as good as place as any. And there are carrots in the garden.”

Hermione busied herself lighting a fire in the grate while Ron went outside to unearth a meal. Crookshanks had jumped into a stuffed armchair by the fire and curled up there as though he did so every day. Harry wandered over to the tiny kitchen table and received a shock.

A copy of the _Morning Prophet_ from that very day lay open on the table. A headline read, SAINT MUNGO’S OFFICIALS DENY INVOLVEMENT IN ROTHFANG SCANDAL.

Harry vaguely remembered hearing about a Healer who had tried to make off with a patient’s personal effects and caused an unfortunate brawl a few months ago. He scanned the first few lines of the article.

“ _Martin Pankhurst, 67, long-time head of the special care ward at Saint Mungo’s Hospital, declined today to speak with reporters on the subject of notorious employee Celsius Rothfang. Saint Mungo’s invited controversy earlier this year by appointing Rothfang the first ever Squib Healer in the institution’s history. Though many protested the choice, Rothfang was hailed as a prodigious asset given his expertise in Charms and Potioneering theory, and had given critics no reason to decry his appointment until this Spring, when an altercation between Rothfang and an unidentified patient led to Rothfang’s suspension._

_Daily Prophet correspondents’ attempts at discovering the name of the patient in question have been repeatedly rebuffed. However, inside sources have reported exclusively that the patient’s files were withdrawn from the Hospital and sealed by a person or persons of considerable influence…_

_For more on allegations of Healer Pankhurst’s ties to Billywig powder trafficking, see pages 4 and 7_ …”

Harry frowned at the story. He knew better than anyone how the Prophet liked to twist the truth. Yet this was the second time in as many days that he had seen mention of a Squib in some mysterious circumstances. Hadn’t Flint said something about taking orders from a Squib the previous night?

As if in answer to his thoughts, another headline caught Harry’s eye. A small story had been crammed in beneath the Saint Mungo’s article, and the accompanying photograph showed a harried Marcus Flint blinking up at Harry.

MAGICAL GAMES AND SPORTS EMPLOYEE FLINT ARRESTED ON SUSPICION OF SEDITION, read the headline.

“Sedition?” said Hermione, who had approached and read the page over Harry’s shoulder. The look she gave him was wretched. “It’s because he let us go, isn’t it? It’s happening again. Anyone who tries to help us ends up in trouble.”

Harry did not reply. His blood was boiling in a way it had not done for over a year. He had forgotten how violently it angered him to see innocent people trampled on by some power-hungry maniac who was too cowardly to show himself outright. He wanted to burst from the cottage and fire curses into the night. He wanted to return to the Ministry and demand to know what was going on. He wanted to find Ginny and make absolutely certain that she had gotten his message.

Harry closed the _Prophet_ and looked bleakly at the front page. Sure enough, it bore an enlarged image of his face peering from a Muggle television, shooting water from his wand in front of a news van.

“You’ll never guess what I found in the garden!” exclaimed Ron, reappearing suddenly in the doorway. His smile vanished when he caught sight of Harry and Hermione’s expressions. “What?”

“Just the _Prophet_ stirring things up as usual,” said Harry, holding the paper aloft for Ron to see. “Does the name Rothfang mean anything to you?”

“Rothfang? That Healer nutter who tried to off one of his patients?” Ron shrugged. “He was sacked, wasn’t he?”

“It says in here he’s a Squib.”

“So?”

“Flint mentioned taking orders from a Squib,” said Hermione, frowning.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “But I don’t see how they could be the same person. Flint was talking about someone who works at the Ministry.”

After a strained silence, Hermione turned to Ron and asked, “What did you find?”

Grinning, Ron reached behind his back and produced two sturdy broomsticks. They looked old, but were in excellent condition.

“Reckon these’ll get us across to the mainland in a pinch if we Disillusion ourselves,” he said. “Bless you, Crookshanks,” he added in the direction of the cat.

Hermione made a face, but Harry cried, “Excellent!”

“First, though,” Ron went on, reaching into his pocket to show them a generous pile of freshly pulled carrots and potatoes, “let’s have some stew.”


	7. The Noble and Most Ancient House Of Krum

HARRY

The flight from Dover to Calais was an exhilarating experience. Harry had not flown since the summer he had spent at the Burrow after the war. He had forgotten the thrill of the wind rushing past his face and the urge to push the broom as fast as it would go. A little to his right, he could hear Ron speaking reassuringly to Hermione, who had never been a good flier. It was an odd spectacle, as all he could see of the pair of them was a broom speeding along with the indistinct outlines of Ron and Hermione painted the precise color of the sky above it.

A little over two hours later found them landing on the shores of Calais. Harry had never passed this way before, but thought there was something unsettling about the complete absence of ships on the water. Could the hysteria caused by the fall of the Statute of Secrecy have spread this far already?

Harry, Ron and Hermione had discussed at length how they would go about their journey safely before leaving the cottage. They had remained there for nearly a week, though Harry itched to set out much sooner. They had debated seeking out the Delacours, Fleur’s parents, for help, but had decided against it. They did not want to bring trouble upon their friends as they had for so many others who had helped them evade the Ministry over the years. Instead, they would have to rely on their brooms to transport them to safe rural areas.

“Oh! Look,” said Hermione.

Harry followed her gaze to the rear wall of a nearby ship registries office. His own face stared back at him from a Muggle poster, captioned with the words “Armed and Dangerous.” On either side, Ron and Hermione’s faces looked out from identical posters.

“If only we had a bit of Polyjuice,” said Ron. “Though I never really fancied the taste.”

“There’s no hiding in plain sight here,” said Hermione. “We’ll have to take cover and travel by night.”

She reached down and untied a large wicker basket from the end of her broomstick. The basket fell open and Crookshanks emerged, hissing furiously.

“You had to bring him?” said Ron. “I know he saved our skins and all, but we can’t be all that stealthy traveling round with a cat, can we?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, frowning. “It looks like he wants to show us something.”

Crookshanks had trotted off in the direction of the office. Casting a look around to make sure they were not being followed, Harry, Ron and Hermione ran after him. They entered the deserted cabin with their wands at the ready. A single naked light bulb hung from the ceiling on a wire, affording a little flickering illumination. The room was strewn with loose stacks of paper warped by the rain leaking in from the exposed rafters. There was nothing here to suggest they might find a successful escape from the Muggle authorities.

Crookshanks leapt onto the desk, purring. Without warning, he swept his tail from side to side. A sheaf of paper was blown across to the north window, which stood open. Instead of flying out into the harbor, however, the papers vibrated strangely in mid-air before falling back to the floor of the cabin.

“What the bloody hell was that?” said Ron.

“Protective enchantments,” said Hermione. “This place is guarded by powerful spells.”

“But how can it be?” asked Harry. “We just walked inside.”

Ron picked up a paperweight and threw it at the window at full force. The small china dolphin shattered.

“It’s… It’s warded to protect _us_ ,” said Hermione slowly.

“Can we trust it?” said Ron. “It might be a trap.”

“Crookshanks led us to safety before,” Harry reasoned.

“But do you realize what this means?” Hermione exclaimed. “Someone is helping us! Someone set this cabin up as a safe house for us!”

“We should still keep watch,” said Harry. “If anyone approaches, for any reason, we run.”

They split the day into thirds, as per their custom, sleeping fitfully and in bursts while one of them kept a lookout. Crookshanks flounced around the cabin looking haughtily pleased with himself. Once he left the premises for almost an hour, returning with a mouthful of toad which he took to the corner of the room and guarded closely. Occasionally a solitary car drove by outside, or else a boat departed from the harbor, but no one came near the cabin.

At last the sun dipped over the horizon. Harry, Ron and Hermione Disillusioned themselves and flew off into the clouded night sky. They were soaked through within moments. Harry heard Hermione casting _Impervius_ over herself and Ron, and did the same, but he was already cold to the bone. He leaned forward and urged his broom to gain speed.

When they could stand to cling to their brooms with frostbitten hands no longer, they landed in an empty country pasture, where Hermione managed to conjure a reasonable facsimile of a shelter. Crookshanks disappeared once more, and this time returned with a full-grown rabbit, which they cooked over a small magical fire.

It was lucky that they had all three experienced rough living during what should have been their seventh year at Hogwarts. Otherwise, Harry suspected, the strain of sleeping on the ground night after night, and eating food foraged by Crookshanks, would have been too much to bear. They traveled on this way for several weeks, frequently doubling back and taking complicated detours to throw off anyone who might be on their tail. Germany yielded better game but colder nights than France. From there, Harry, Ron and Hermione moved East through Denmark, and North along the coast of Sweden until they reached Norway.

“You’re _sure_ you remember the place?” Hermione asked one morning in early September.

“I spent weeks tracking Yaxley there, Hermione,” Harry assured her for the twelfth time, throwing dirt into their campfire as they readied themselves to leave. “Five hundred miles North of Oslo, right in the middle of a mountain range.”

“Meanwhile, I had to follow Dawlish to Stockholm just to find out the deranged criminal we were meant to be tailing was Stan Shunpike,” Ron grumbled. Ron’s disposition was marginally more pleasant than it had once been without Slytherin’s locket around his neck, but he had yet to adjust fully to the effects of hunger. Harry was glad that they would be arriving at their destination soon.

He took a quick survey of the snow-capped hill where they had pitched their makeshift tent and cast their warming charms, walking in a wide circle and checking for footprints in the snow. Finding none, he returned to gather his broom, clearing his throat and knocking his feet loudly against the ground to make his presence known. After an incident near Copenhagen, Harry had begun to find it necessary to announce himself before entering any room occupied by Ron and Hermione.

“We should only be a day or so away,” Harry said. “And there isn’t a town for miles. We might as well fly through the day.”

“Fine,” said Ron. “But I’m not getting soaked again. We can fly beneath the clouds.”

Harry thought they could probably have gotten away with Apparating the distance in a few leaps, but Hermione had shouted him down each time he had suggested it. They had continued to see wanted posters offering a reward for their own capture all through Germany. Without knowing how far the hunt stretched, Hermione insisted, they could not risk Apparating and having their movements tracked. Harry found the posters strangely unnerving. For all that he had been through, he had never been wanted internationally before.

They flew longer than they had ever done before that day, skimming close to the ground at regular intervals so that Harry could examine their surroundings. Before long Harry could not feel his arms. Shortly after midday he began to find the scenery increasingly familiar, until he heard Hermione gasp.

“Stop!” she shrieked. The wind ripped her voice away the moment she spoke, but Harry saw her lips move. “Stop the brooms!”

Harry leaned back sharply and managed not to lose control of his flight. To his right Ron and Hermione swayed but remained airborne.

“What?” he shouted.

“Protective spells!” Hermione yelled back. “Like the ones around the Hogwarts grounds. We’ve reached the boundaries of Durmstrang. Look!”

Sure enough, when Harry squinted more closely, he could see an iron gate stretching for miles across the snow-covered ground below. He tried aiming a spell straight ahead and had to duck when it rebounded.

“So I suppose we’re walking the rest of the way,” said Ron.

They landed before the iron gate, which contorted to form the disconcerting outline of a human mouth.

“State your names,” said the gate in a booming voice.

“Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger,” said Harry through chattering teeth.

He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind sweep over him as the gate evaluated him. It seemed to make a favorable judgement, for there were a series of clicks and the bars swung forward to offer them admittance. Harry led the way onto the grounds of Durmstrang. If his memory served him correctly, he recalled that they still had a trek of some miles ahead of them before reaching the castle.

The grounds were a stunning patchwork of crags, streams, and towering mountains covered in a quilt of sterling white snow. When the sun set they would be able to see northern lights shimmer above the ancient spruce trees that lined the path to the school. A few hundred feet from the gate Harry noticed sentinels stationed at the foot of the nearest mountain. They stood motionless, wands at the ready, staring into the distance. And again, half a mile later, more guards greeted them.

“Cheerful lot, aren’t they?” muttered Ron.

The pattern persisted for the two hours it took Harry, Ron and Hermione to trek up the winding path to the school. At last the school came into view, and Harry stopped for a moment to appreciate the sight of the smoke colored turrets built into the face of the tallest mountain in the range. The castle was a natural stronghold, difficult to reach in large numbers and surrounded by thick walls of basalt. On the mountain’s other side, Harry knew, there stretched a magnificent expanse of valley perfect for Quidditch practice.

A lone figure was making its way down the path from the school to greet them. Harry recognized him by his gait before he saw his face, and his jaw dropped. The familiar man divested himself of a layer of heavy furs, revealing robes the traditional crimson of Durmstrang underneath. Harry heard Ron swear under his breath.

“Hello, Hermione,” said Viktor Krum.

Hermione looked both shocked and pleasantly flustered. “Viktor! You learned how to say my name properly! Er, what—what are you doing here?”

“I vos made Headmaster,” said Krum with a rare smile. “Allow me to show you inside the castle, vere you vill be received properly.”

“Aren’t you awfully young to be a Headmaster?” asked Ron loudly as they followed Krum up the path.

“I am the youngest in the school’s history,” said Krum calmly. “It is an interesting story. There haff been many changes since the Statute vos broken, as you must know. This, I think, is why you are here?”

“Yes, we do have some questions, and some things to discuss,” said Hermione breathlessly. Ron’s arm had somehow managed to find its way around her shoulders as they walked.

“Yeah,” Harry interjected. “Like why are there guards stationed all over the grounds?”

Krum turned a grim expression on Harry.

“Surely,” he said, “you know that ve are being votched.”

***

DUDLEY

It had been nearly two months since his first meeting with Cho Chang, and the global manhunt for his cousin had rather managed to escape Dudley.

He had been interrogated several times by government agents, who had invited themselves forcefully into Number Four, Privet Drive and borne Vernon Dursley’s indignation with bland indifference. They had asked Dudley vague, circumspect questions about his cousin, offered his mother a cup of her own tea, and left with many ominous promises of returning shortly. In the days that followed, Dudley had grown convinced that the dark vehicle with the tinted windows stationed in the alleyway nearby was a plant, filled with spy equipment trained on the Dursley house.

For all this, Dudley spent very little time thinking about his cousin. As the weeks went by he became increasingly perturbed for another reason altogether. His mother fussed and his father offered blustering, well-meaning curses as Dudley shut himself in his bedroom day after day, refusing meals. But Dudley could hardly tell them the truth.

He spent much of his evenings nursing headaches as he strained his eyes to read the incomprehensible small print in _The Standard Book of Spells: Grade Six_ and _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_. Dudley had spirited the books away from the pile of Harry’s forgotten effects after the Dursleys had come out of hiding, and stowed them under his floorboards before his father could dispose of them in some irrevocable way. He could not explain the impulse to himself, except that his cousin had saved his life and these books were the only trace of him that now remained in Privet Drive.

Still, Dudley had never read them. He had let them sit undisturbed under the floorboards like some shameful, half-remembered secret, until a fortnight ago.

Cho Chang had vanished without a trace after the night of the first mobs and looting. She had promised they would see one another again, but despite his best efforts, Dudley had been unable to locate her. He had looked through phone books, newspapers, even internet search engines, to no avail. Then it had dawned on him that perhaps she did not _want_ to see him again. What if she had changed her mind? It would not be the first time Dudley had proven himself too dim to hold the attention of a girl he fancied. His mother could make excuses all he liked, but Dudley knew when he was being brushed aside.

So it was that Dudley found himself bent over an incredibly dull tome about something called “house-elves”—as he understood it, abominable shrunken creatures with the power to creep about residences unseen—in the early hours of the morning, moving his lips to frame the words he could not understand. It had taken him over a week to get through the first chapter alone. He kept opening it to the first page and then closing it again, horrified by this solid evidence of the magical world transcribed before him. But if he was ever to have anything to talk to Cho Chang about, he would have to persist.

Dudley heard his mother tip-toe across the corridor and stop outside his room, no doubt spying the light streaming from under his door. To his relief, she walked on without comment after a few moments. He had no idea how he would have explained the complicated diagrams of magical creatures he was examining.

_Crack!_

Dudley recoiled. Something had collided with his window and left an actual dent in the glass. Dudley waited, petrified, for his mother to come running. When it appeared that she had not heard, he crept cautiously across the room with Harry’s book in hand, ready to pummel whoever was attempting to break his window.

Cho Chang was standing in his backyard with her magic wand raised.

Dudley remained immobile for almost a full minute before he was able to regain the full use of his senses. Cho was waving at him. With a flick of her wand she repaired his window. The crack running the length of the glass disappeared, as though it had never existed at all. Dudley’s hand jumped instinctively to his backside as the memory of a pig’s tail surfaced.

Cho smiled at his reaction. On impulse, Dudley opened the window and leaned through.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she replied. “Or shall I levitate up to you?”

“No!” said Dudley hastily. “I’ll—I’ll come down.”

Half convinced he had taken leave of his senses, Dudley slipped out of his room as quietly as possible and padded down the stairs to the first floor landing. He cut through the kitchen to the backyard and joined Cho, suddenly acutely aware that he was wearing mismatched socks.

“How did you know where I live?” he whispered with many glances up at his parents’ bedroom window.

“I have Muggleborn friends,” said Cho primly. “I know how to use a phonebook.”

Dudley was finding it difficult to concentrate on her words while her magic wand was still raised and pointed vaguely in his direction. Cho seemed to guess his objections and stowed the wand away in her pocket. They began to speak at the same time.

“I’ve had to lie low these last few weeks,” said Cho with a disarming smile.

“You don’t call or write,” said Dudley. It was something he had heard in a movie.

They paused and laughed awkwardly. Dudley became aware that there was gooseflesh running up Cho’s arms. He thought inexplicably of what Harry would have done in this situation, and felt certain that his cousin would have offered Cho his coat.

Dudley did not have a coat. Instead he asked, “Would you like to go for a cuppa, like last time?”

Cho shook her head. “There isn’t time. I’ve come to warn you. We should talk inside.”

“If my mother hears—” Dudley began.

“She won’t,” said Cho.

With misgivings, Dudley led the way back through the kitchen into the sitting room, where he thankfully remembered to pull Cho’s chair out for her at the table. Congratulating himself on his presence of mind, Dudley took a few colas from the fridge and offered one to Cho. When he turned back he saw to his alarm that she had her magic wand out again.

“ _Muffliato_ ,” she murmured. When Dudley scrambled back she added, “It’s only to keep this conversation between us. Goodness, haven’t you ever seen anyone do magic before?”

“I’ve seen m—magic,” said Dudley darkly.

Cho considered him for a moment. At last she shrugged.

“Dudley, I need you to be honest with me,” she said. “You didn’t get along with Harry much, did you?”

Dudley’s first instinct was to lie. Then he remembered how the Dementoid had made him see things inside his own head, and wondered whether Cho’s lot could read minds. Harry never had, or else he had not claimed to. All the same, Dudley shook his head reluctantly.

“That’s what I thought,” said Cho. “They’re going to try to take advantage of you.”

“Who?” asked Dudley. He pictured sects of green-faced warlocks chanting around a bubbling cauldron, like in the old computer games he used to play as a child.

“The Muggle authorities. I’m sure they’ve been to see you already?”

“Er,” said Dudley. “Some men came to ask questions about him. About Harry. But I lied and told them I hadn’t heard from him in years, so they would leave me alone.”

“So you _have_ heard from Harry?”

“He sent me a letter after that—that _war_. Just to ask if I was all right. I never wrote back.”

Cho grimaced, somehow managing to look lovelier in the process. “Well, Dudley, you were able to lie because I spiked your tea with an antidote to Veritaserum.”

Dudley nodded knowledgeably, desperate to appear as though he could keep up with Cho’s conversation. He vaguely recalled reading about Veritaserum in one of Harry’s books, but had given up on the chapter as a bad job shortly thereafter.

“You don’t have any idea what I mean, do you?” said Cho with a faint grin.

“Er,” said Dudley.

“That pub I took you to that day, the Leaky Cauldron, was a Wizarding pub,” she explained. “The barman, Tom, gave me something to put in your tea so that you wouldn’t be affected by truth potions. I suspected the Muggle government would come around to ask you about Harry, and I didn’t want to risk them slipping you a truth serum in case you knew anything about Harry that could get you—or him—in trouble. According to my sources, the Muggles have access to magical weapons.”

“You drugged me?” Dudley felt a rush of belated panic. What if there were aftereffects? What if he grew pig’s ears, this time? He ought to have known he was in a magical pub when one of the patrons had paid the barman in gold coins the size of saucers.

“It was only an antidote,” said Cho. “I was trying to help.”

Dudley struggled to verbalize his objections. There were so many that he gave up and settled on his most pressing question instead.

“You said they were going to try to take advantage of me?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. There’s been a great deal of change since Harry broke the Statute. They’re trying to keep it quiet, but wizards and witches are being rounded up and interrogated, and Muggles have been noticing. Some of us are their friends and neighbors. From what I hear, the Muggle authorities are looking to mend their image to the public.”

“The government is… capturing your lot?” said Dudley, struggling to keep up. He felt suddenly very dizzy. It was surreal to be speaking so plainly about magic in his mother’s spotless sitting room, with a vase full of wilting tulips to his left and a girl holding a magic wand to his right.

“My lot, right,” said Cho, and for some reason she looked unhappy. “And since Harry is the one who exposed us, and you’re his cousin, you’re about to become very well known. The Muggles want to use you as a sort of figurehead for their cause. That’s what our sources at the _Prophet_ say.”

“But your lot can do _magic!_ ” Dudley burst out. “Can’t you just… wave your wands and mend it all?”

“Times are changing,” said Cho quietly.

The doorbell rang.

There was a bellowing of oaths from upstairs as Vernon woke up. Cho stood and retreated towards the kitchen.

“I can’t be here,” she said. “I only came to warn you.”

“Warn me?” Dudley repeated. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead and landed on his mother’s pristine linoleum floor. He did not know what to do next.

Harry. Harry would have known what to do.

“Come with me,” Cho urged as the doorbell rang a second time.

There were footsteps from upstairs.

“I—I can’t,” said Dudley. “My parents…”

“They’ll _use_ you,” Cho insisted.

Dudley remained immobile, and Cho’s expression darkened.

“I see,” she said with distinct frostiness. The doorbell rang a third time.

“What the _bleeding_ hell?” came Vernon’s voice from the top of the stairs.

“Wait!” Dudley cried, but Cho was already gone.

Cursing himself to the moon and back, Dudley rushed to the front corridor to get to the door before his father could. Opening it, he was greeted by a pair of men in charcoal suits, both with guns holstered at their hips.

“Good evening,” said one of the men pleasantly. The sun was just beginning to rise beyond the roofs on the houses opposite. “Do I have the pleasure of speaking with Dudley Dursley?”

Dudley nodded jerkily, keeping his eyes on the man’s gun.

“Dudley,” said the man, extending his hand, “my associate and I would like to speak to you about a—shall we say an opportunity.”

Dudley looked over his shoulder at his father, who was huffing like a rhinoceros at the end of the corridor. With a sigh, he stepped outside.


	8. Magical Decree Number Twenty-Four

LUNA

“I can’t believe they did it to us again!” cried Ginny. She shut the window after Pigwidgeon and threw herself into a chair by the fireplace.

“Still no word, then?” asked Neville, who was pruning a potted Chinese Chomping Cabbage by the bookcase.

“Not since Skeeter brought us those messages last month,” Ginny fumed. “They’ve gone off on another adventure without us.”

She, Neville, and Luna were sitting together in the minuscule sitting room of George Weasley’s flat. Every so often there was a small explosion from down in the shop. Luna was glad that Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes was still open, because she knew that Ginny was much more concerned for George than she let on.

“Why are all your trunks here?” Neville asked in the voice Neville often used to restore calm.

“I’m moving in,” said Ginny. “Mum fusses like mad ever since Ron left, and besides, I like the atmosphere in Diagon. Everyone isn’t so on edge like in the country.”

“That’s because there’s hardly any traffic anymore,” Neville pointed out. “Everyone is afraid to leave their homes.”

A clock above the mantelpiece chimed four times. Ginny and Neville tensed.

“Shall we go?” said Luna.

The other two nodded. Luna led the way out of the flat and down through the shop, which was uncharacteristically deserted. Ducking to avoid a flurry of Dive-Bombing Dungarees, the centerpiece of George’s new line of Wayfaring Wizardwear, they exited into the Alley.

“We’d best split up,” said Neville. “In case we’re followed.”

Ginny nodded. “I’ll take Knockturn, and you two go through Muggle London. You can Floo from Grimmauld Place.”

“Knockturn is dangerous,” Neville protested. “I’ll go through there, and you two go to Grimmauld.”

“Neville, don’t be thick. How would I look explaining to your Gran that I let you go off into Knockturn Alley on your own?”

“We don’t have to split up,” Luna announced, glad to put an end to the argument. “I have a Portkey.”

She pulled an empty chocolate frog casing from her pocket. Neville looked at it dubiously.

“Er, are you sure, Luna?” he asked. “We could get into a lot of trouble for this.”

“Yes, it’s an authorized Portkey,” Luna explained. “One of daddy’s friends dropped it off yesterday. It will take us directly to Dover. Everyone will be waiting there.”

The casing glowed blue. Nodding, Ginny placed a finger on it next to Luna’s. Neville followed suit. They were soon catapulting through a dizzying kaleidoscope of blurred scenery as the Portkey whisked them off to their destination. Luna kept her eyes open throughout the journey, enjoying the sensation. Ginny and Neville, who were cringing, sprawled to the floor when they landed. Luna helped them to their feet, all the while looking around her with interest. They were in an underground tunnel. The air smelled of damp earth and the floor was littered with what looked like dragon scales.

“This friend of your father’s,” said Neville, “is he on the staff at the _Quibbler_?”

“No,” said Luna. “Rolf works with endangered species of Magical Creatures at the Wizarding Academy in Berlin.”

“Hang on, you don’t mean Rolf Scamander?” asked Neville excitedly.

“Simply Rolf, to my friends,” said a voice from within the tunnel, and a man in a Dragonskin coat stepped into the light. “And any friend of Xeno Lovegood’s is a friend of mine.”

Luna had not seem him in many years. He walked now with a slight limp from a bite sustained in a Manticore attack, though he managed to turn the motion into a swagger. He had bronzed skin and dark eyes that reminded Luna of forests at dusk. His accent was a peculiar mixture of his mother’s Portugese and his father’s English tongues. Luna liked the sound of his voice.

Rolf’s footsteps echoed against the tunnel walls, which seemed to stretch on forever into the darkness. Their own stretch of confined, dirt-packed space was illuminated only by a single torch planted firmly in the ground.

“I have all four of your books,” Neville told Rolf with enthusiasm. Catching sight of the look on Ginny’s face, however, he ceased dancing from one foot to the next excitedly. “Er, where are we?”

“There is a tunnel running from Folkenstone to Coquelles, which allows Muggles to cross from England to France without riding the ferry or the aeroplane,” Rolf explained, stopping to place a kiss to Luna’s hand by way of greeting. He did the same with Ginny, then clapped Neville on the back and went on. “This is a second, secret tunnel known only to Magical folk. It is used to transport dangerous Magical Creatures to and from the continent.” He winked in Luna’s direction. “You remember, do you not, Luna?”

Luna concentrated very hard, and found that she did remember. She had been here once before. She little more than a toddler, and Rolf ten years old at the most, had hobbled along together after Xenophilius in pursuit of a Snorkack that had escaped from the Lovegood household. They had gotten lost in some dark bend of the tunnel and made a pact not to let one another be eaten by stray Opaleye foals.

Ginny was looking intently between Luna and Rolf. It was a look Luna had seen her wear many times, but seldom directed at herself.

“Are you afraid of being underground?” Luna asked Ginny with some concern.

Ginny grinned. “No. But some of our recruits seem to be. Aren’t they meant to be here by now?”

“They are waiting for you,” said Rolf. “This way.”

He crossed to a marking in the wall behind them. Luna recognized it as a rune used by the notorious Umgubular Slashkilter to perpetuate a conspiracy touching every branch of the Ministry of Magic. Rolf, however, merely tapped it with his wand, and the wall dissolved to reveal a low-ceilinged room filled with nervous chatter.

“Luna!” cried a familiar voice from the back of the crowd. Luna recognized Anthony Goldstein and waved. She also spotted Demelza Robbins, the elderly Dr Filibuster of Filibuster’s Fireworks, and Stubby Boardman of the Hobgoblins. Luna, Neville, and Ginny had spent over a month quietly spreading the word to every corner of the country: refuge was available on the continent. Luna’s father had arranged the refuge on a Porlock preservation habitat in Belgium, while Luna and her friends had taken care of gathering everyone who sought asylum together that day. Neville had enlisted help from most of the old DA members, who had managed to round up over three dozen people to move through the tunnel. He had urged the DA to follow suit and take themselves far away from the hotbed of discord that was England. But all had refused. Ginny had confided to Luna that she was anxious but pleased, because more people remaining behind meant more allies.

“They seemed ill-disposed to trust me,” said Rolf, gesturing to the crowd. “This is why you are here.”

“What’re we doing here, Ginny?” asked Ritchie Coote from behind Demelza.

“This tunnel will take you to Dunkirk, and from there we’ve arranged to bring you to Brussels until the Supernatural Affairs Committee of Britain is disbanded,” Ginny announced.

“What about our friends? Our cousins, our grandparents?”

“We’ll continue moving people through for as long as the Committee keeps rounding up witches and wizards,” said Neville.

Anthony Goldstein nodded to his mother and moved through the passageway into the tunnel, followed by Demelza and Ritchie.

“Watch your step,” Rolf advised them. “Any dragon scales you find are yours to keep, but the bones are a protected artifact.”

Luna fell into step beside him as he led the way down the tunnel. Stubby Boardman kept pace with them on her other side.

“We’re much obliged to you, Miss Lovegood, Mr Scamander,” said Stubby. “I mean to say, if there’s anything we can do to return the favor…”

Luna had no need of favors. She could not think of anything she desired beyond what she already had, so long as her father and her friends were safe. She looked at Rolf to see if he had a request to make, but Rolf was busy examining a set of claw marks running along the tunnel wall and muttering to himself about Acromantula hybrids.

“I’ve got me some connections, see?” Stubby persisted. His hair was lank and his skin sallow, and his robes hung in tatters over his frame. But for all this, he looked to be in high spirits. “Played some high-toned events in my day. The Minister for Magic once attended a concert.”

“Cornelius Fudge attended a Hobgoblins concert?” said Rolf.

“No, sir. It was before his time. Millicent Bagnold herself, that’s who I played for. I mean to say, I’ve got my ways of doing a good turn. I won’t forget about this, see?”

“Do you know Millicent Bagnold?” asked Ginny, who was walking behind them.

“She’s a close personal acquaintance,” said Stubby importantly. “I can’t guarantee you an introduction, but—”

“That’s kind of you,” said Ginny. “But that’s not why I asked.”

“Are you a fan of hers?” asked Neville. “Hermione once told me about every law she’d ever passed through the Wizengamot.”

Ginny shook her head. “No, it was something the Sorting Hat said to me on the night of our graduation, when I was returning it to McGonagall’s office. It asked me if I knew what Millicent Bagnold was up to nowadays.”

“Now why would the Hogwarts Sorting Hat want to know that, I wonder?” said Rolf.

“The Hat acted very oddly this year,” piped up Demelza. “During the Sorting Ceremony it sang about changing tides and all sorts of nonsense. Didn’t even say a thing about the houses.”

“Maybe it’s tired of Sorting people,” Luna suggested. She doubted very much whether she could do anything for a thousand years without growing somewhat disinterested.

“But I thought that’s what the Hat was created for,” said Neville.

“It was enchanted over a thousand years ago,” Ginny reasoned. “I suppose it’s possible the enchantment could be wearing off. I’ve never heard of any other spell lasting that long after its caster’s death. Even portraits lose some of their enthusiasm as the years wear on. Isn’t that why there aren’t any portraits of the Founders at Hogwarts?”

“Perhaps a spell is not what keeps it alive,” Rolf suggested.

Luna found most things he said rather interesting, and asked, “What do you mean?”

“There are many theories about the Sorting Hat in the Magical world at large. It is something of a running joke among the other Magical schools of Europe. Many believe it is fueled by dark magic, to have endured so long. Watch your heads here.”

They all ducked in time to avoid a row of stalactites, except for Neville, who yelped as he collided head on with a pillar of suspended stone.

“I’m all right,” Neville muttered, waving the others off as they halted in concern. “Old habits.”

Luna raised her wand to illuminate the tunnel ceiling more brightly while Ginny clapped Neville on the back in commiseration.

“My grandfather once did the very same thing,” Rolf told Neville.

Luna had never met Newt Scamander, the author of many of her Care of Magical Creatures textbooks, but had listened raptly to Rolf’s stories about his grandfather while growing up. She knew that he had been Headmaster of Hogwarts for many years.

“I think you’d make an excellent Headmaster,” she told Neville encouragingly.

Everyone looked at Luna as though she had begun speaking in Gobbledygook. Only Rolf seemed to understand, and gave her a wink. Luna spent much of the remainder of the journey scanning the tunnel floor carefully for dragon scales in order to avoid looking at Rolf, because each time she did, an odd lurch in her stomach caused her to worry that she was falling ill.

Shortly thereafter there was a disturbance at the tail end of the group. Luna, Ginny and Neville immediately drew their wands, prepared for an attack, only to find that Anthony Goldstein was locked in a fierce argument with his mother while a diminutive young man looked on sheepishly.

“What seems to be the problem?” asked Rolf.

“There are Muggles among us!” cried Mrs Goldstein. “I knew that this was a bad idea, I simply knew we should not have come. My son and I are leaving.”

“Mum, _no_ ,” Anthony protested. “You can trust Luna. She’s brought us here for a good reason.”

“Are you a Muggle, then?” Luna asked the youth standing awkwardly behind Anthony and his mother. In truth, he hardly looked older than fifteen. The boy blushed crimson.

“If—If that means not a supernatural person, like you lot, then yes,” said the boy. “I’m Mark Evans.”

He had short, sandy hair and a dusting of freckles across his nose. Luna thought he looked like a pleasant enough person. She glanced at Ginny, who was frowning. They exchanged a silent consultation until Ginny shrugged.

“How did you come to be here, Mark Evans?” asked Rolf. “I presume Luna and her friends did not invite you.”

“I w—wasn’t invited,” Mark Evans admitted. “I followed you here.” He nodded at Stubby. The latter looked mortified.

“But how did you know to follow someone?” asked Neville.

“When I was small—” Mark Evans flushed even brighter than before. “Smaller than now… I was bullied by this bloke who lived nearby. Dursley. Dudley Dursley. He was spoiled and he had this whole gang who did whatever they pleased. They broke my ten-speed that I’d saved up for all summer. So I started following him. I’d hang around the Dursley house when no one could tell I was there. It didn’t take long to realize the Dursleys were hiding something. That Potter boy who lived with them, who everyone called a freak, I found out he could do magic.”

“Dursley, that’s Harry’s cousin,” Ginny whispered for Luna and Neville’s benefit. From the look on her face, Luna surmised that the Dursleys were probably not very nice people.

“I decided to find out whatever I could about magic,” Mark Evans went on. “All these owls would fly by the Dursley house, and I’d feed them along the way until they started to trust me. So I started reading the post—Potter’s post. Most of it didn’t make any sense, but there were these newspapers sometimes. I learned from them. All kinds. And I thought I’d really like to meet a wizard, so I tried finding one. It hasn’t been easy. It’s taken years and years, actually, since Potter doesn’t hang around Privet Drive anymore. I thought I might have a bit of luck with someone famous, so I chose him. Boardman. He was mentioned a couple of times in the, er, the _Daily Prophet_. I worked out where he was based on the pictures. The moving pictures.”

“I was lately in Dover on some… business,” Stubby muttered, carefully examining the fingernails of his left hand.

“I just… followed him down here,” said Mark Evans. “I had no idea I’d be walking into some kind of—of escape attempt.”

“You _walked_ here?” Ginny asked Stubby incredulously.

“My Apparition license was lately revoked… A complete misunderstanding… I mean to say—I’ll have it cleared up in a trice…” Stubby’s speech trailed off into nothing.

“Well, that was quite the story,” Rolf told Mark Evans. “But I’m afraid we simply can’t let you run off and tell the Muggle authorities what you’ve seen here.” He looked around him for approval. “I’ll have to Obliviate you. It won’t hurt at all.”

“Wait!” Mark Evans exclaimed. “I don’t want to tell anyone about this. I think it’s brilliant! All of it! I’m not on the Supernatural Affairs Committee’s side. I swear.”

“All the same, you’ve seen a great deal more than is allowed.”

“That’s not true,” Luna pointed out. When everyone blinked at her, she said, “Because the Statute of Secrecy is broken, you see? So we can’t be blamed for breaking it again.”

Rolf’s face broke into a radiant smile. “Luna, Luna,” he sing-songed. “You did always have a knack for seeing things a certain way.”

“So technically, there’s no harm in his being here,” said Neville slowly. “We did say _anyone_ could come along who wanted to.”

“Don’t send me back,” Mark Evans pleaded, pressing his advantage. “I won’t be any trouble. Everyone back home is on about terrorist conspiracies and technological warfare. I just want to see what’s really going on.”

“Why not, then? Of course, you know we’ll turn you into a horned toad if you break your word,” said Ginny, deadpan.

Mark Evans blanched.

“Now, wait just one moment!” Mrs Goldstein began, but Anthony forestalled her.

“Mum, be quiet,” he said firmly.

“You’ll keep an eye on him?” Rolf asked Luna, Ginny and Neville. All three nodded.

The party moved along, stopping several times to eat and rest and delaying until Ginny or Neville hurried them along. Mark Evans kept to himself, stammering so badly when one of his companions attempted to engage him in conversation that they eventually gave up and left him in peace. Luna managed to fill her pockets with dragon scales and the quills of a Jabbering Porcupincushion, a giant species of mutant rodent on which her father had once written an extensive dissertation. A full day’s walk later found the group emerging from the tunnel into the midst of a bustling French city.

“That ought to have taken much longer than it did,” Ginny observed.

“Certain enchantments on the tunnel do speed things up rather helpfully,” said Rolf.

Mark Evans looked on the verge of collapsing in astonishment.

“What do we do next?” asked Neville.

Rolf clapped his hands together. “I do not believe the French Ministry will be monitoring transportation quite so closely as your own. I have arranged for us to Floo directly to the safe haven that has been established in Belgium.” He reached inside his coat pockets to show them a bag of emerald powder, loosing several ferrets and a paper crane that immediately flew off shouting obscenities. “Ah, I forgot that was there,” he muttered distractedly. “As I was saying, we will Floo in after sundown, as I believe this is the most active time for the Floo network, and our activities are more likely to go unnoticed. To set up too many registered Portkeys would draw notice. But first, who’s feeling peckish? Mark, might you recommend any good Muggle restaurants?”

But Mark Evans had fainted.

***

MILLICENT

The armored doors of the wide chrome headquarters slid open and Millicent walked through with her arms held above her head. The headquarters was located in Saint James’s Park, only a mile or so from Downing Street, yet Millicent found her surroundings transformed. She was surrounded by cool steel and glimmering computer screens. Immediately, eighteen guards trained their firearms on her. It was all very pedestrian.

A man in military dress spoke quickly into a tin box in his hand, then advanced.

“State your purpose,” he ordered.

“I am here to voluntarily surrender myself,” said Millicent calmly.

The guards shuffled in collective alarm. A few shook their heads at the man with the tin box.

“We have received word of no voluntary surrenders for today,” he barked.

“Call it a friendly gesture,” said Millicent. “I thought I would save your Committee the trouble of coming to my home to collect me, and made my way here on my own.”

The man narrowed his eyes.

“Name?” he said.

“Millicent Bagnold. Former Minister for Magic. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Former _Minister_ for Magic?” The man snapped his fingers. The guards scrambled to produce a battery of clipboards, upon which their leader verified a list of names.

“Very well,” he said. “You will first surrender your wand.”

Millicent obligingly handed over the joke wand she had purchased from Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes. Her true wand she kept stowed in a Mokeskin pouch tucked away beneath her collar.

The man slipped on a pair of protective gloves and held her wand as though it were a volatile Erumpent horn. It promptly turned into a brass trumpet.

“Magic,” said the man, masking his nerves with a frown. He handed the offending instrument off to one of the guards and nodded. “Follow me.”

Millicent was led through a glass corridor by the unsmiling military man. He was not the most verbose of companions. In lieu of conversation Millicent busied herself with memorizing all she could about her surroundings. She was rather impressed by the level of organization and industry that had obviously gone into the construction of this headquarters. At the end of the corridor a steel panel had been mounted into the wall, with a glossy screen at its center. The military man pressed the pad of his thumb to the screen, and another door opened.

“Quite the establishment you have here,” Millicent observed. “It seems awfully well developed. Almost as though it predates the discovery of magic by the general populace.”

“You will not speak,” snapped the military man. “I am authorized to shoot should you make any attempt to bewitch me with your words.” He shoved her through the door.

Millicent found herself in a narrow holding cell with mirrored walls, furnished only with two straight-backed chairs and an aluminium table. She had once been married to a Muggle actress who delighted in making her watch television crime shows, from which Millicent had gleaned a great deal more than she had ever expected to know about Muggle law enforcement. She could only assume that more guards were watching her from behind the glass.

“You really do not know a great deal about magic, do you?” said Millicent. “I could hardly enchant you simply by speaking, now that you’ve taken away my wand. But given enough motivation, I could almost certainly shatter these walls.”

“Hands,” growled the military man.

Millicent held out her wrists with the palms facing up. Shackles were placed around her forearms. How quaint, she thought, to be chained to a wall.

“Your interrogator will be with you shortly,” said the military man. He seemed eager to escape her presence with all haste. The door closed soundlessly behind him.

For the benefit of whoever might be lurking behind the looking glass, Millicent doubled over and affected a little shudder to give them impression that she might be frightened. Retrieving her wand and communicating with the outside would have to wait until she was confident that she was not being watched.

She rather hoped this operation would not take so long as to prevent her from attending the Harpies match in Manchester that upcoming weekend.

The door burst open and two men in Muggle dress entered the room. One was tall and well-muscled, yet equipped with a perfectly excessive number of firearms. The other was aged, with his long hair held back in a plait and his right eye clouded over with a cataract. Millicent’s gaze lingered on him in a moment of mild surprise. He kept his expression neutral, offering no sign of recognition.

“Millicent Bagnold of Islington, London?” asked the taller man in a tone of ease that did not match his appearance. “Former head of the Magical community’s purported governing institution?”

“The one and only,” Millicent confirmed.

“I am Randall Faraday, and this is my associate Celsius Rothfang. We would like to ask you some questions.”

“Check her pockets, first,” said Rothfang. “The guards have been fooled before.”

Randall Faraday hid his irritation well. Millicent saw the lines around his mouth tighten, but he nodded obligingly.

“Would you stand, please?” he asked.

Millicent stood and held her arms out at her sides. Faraday patted her down and dug through her pockets while Rothfang remained impassive behind him. For the first time, Millicent was intrigued.

“No wands or potions,” said Faraday. “Good show. Please, do have a seat.”

He took a seat opposite Millicent and made a great show of removing the belt that housed his revolvers. The belt was hung on the back of his chair while he leaned forward in a conspiring manner. Rothfang stayed rooted to the floor in the corner.

“So you’ve elected to surrender yourself voluntarily to the Supernatural Affairs Committee,” said Faraday.

“I certainly haven’t come here to peddle baked goods,” Millicent agreed easily.

“And you are aware that, under section eighteen of Magical Decree Number Twenty-Four, your surrender empowers the Committee to hold you indefinitely at its sole discretion?”

“The news reports circulating the country morning, noon, and night did make that clear, yes.”

Faraday leaned back, showing her the whites of his teeth. “You are a curious woman, Mrs Bagnold.”

“You are not the first, nor do I suspect will you be the last person to tell me so.”

“Then, what information have you to share with us?”

“As a matter of interest,” said Millicent, “what would happen if I refused to share?”

Faraday chuckled. The humor did not reach his eyes. “We are not barbarians, Mrs Bagnold, despite how your kind may have painted us. Speech will not be beaten out of you. I believe we are capable of having a more civil dialogue than that. You have come here of your own free will. Surely there is something you wish to discuss?”

“I am interested in opening lines of communication between the Wizarding and Muggle—that is to say, the non-Magical—worlds,” said Millicent, choosing her words carefully. “In the interest of redressing the misinformation that has circulated since my world was exposed. It is the wish of many witches and wizards for our two communities to coexist peacefully.”

“We are pleased to hear it!” said Faraday. He glanced at her wrists and gave a pained exclamation. “Goodness me, have we had you chained up all this time? My apologies. You musn’t think us uncivilized. Allow me?”

He reached out to her with a key. Millicent proffered her wrists and was released.

“We will arrange for you to be lodged more comfortably, will we not?” Faraday aimed the statement at Rothfang in an airy manner, but fell somewhat short. It sounded more like he was asking permission.

“Block C, I think,” said Rothfang. “Have Barlow and Vole prepare a room. And have Dursley sit in on the next interrogation, as well. I shall join you shortly.”

It was just as Millicent had suspected. Though Faraday conducted the interrogations, it was Rothfang who was in charge. Faraday nodded and left the room with his revolver belt in hand. Rothfang and Millicent stared at one another for a moment that spun on uncomfortably.

“What are you truly doing here?” Rothfang asked at last. He glanced up furtively at a camera hung from the ceiling. Millicent inferred that the device recorded image and not sound. She considered Rothfang. She could have had a great deal more fun with him, but for the sake of expediency, she decided to counter his question with one of her own.

“Do they know who you really are?”

Rothfang flinched. His silence was answer enough.

Millicent smiled. “If they find out about me, they find out about you, too. Keep that in mind.”

Rothfang seemed to dither on the verge of speech. Finally, he swept from the room, and Millicent settled back in her chair to await her fate.


	9. The Quodpot World Cup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the Department of Secrecy and Obfuscation to tumblr blog americanwizarding. Super cool term. I liked it so I decided to homage it up. Carry on.

HARRY

Harry opened his eyes and promptly fell out of bed. He sat up to reach for his glasses, already feeling a lump rising on his forehead. With a sigh, he managed to right himself while the ground swayed beneath his feet.

He, Ron and Hermione had been given lodgings in the familiar wooden ship anchored off the shore of the lake dominating the East end of the Durmstrang grounds. Though the ship had floated across the Hogwarts lake for a year during the Tri-Wizard tournament, Harry had never glimpsed its interior before. He had fallen asleep to the sound of waves breaking against the hull, and had been awoken by a tremendous lurch as the ship was tossed about by the tide.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

Harry started, but it was only Ron, leaning against the doorway that connected their rooms and looking bad-tempered.

“Hermione’s gone up to the castle already to have a look at the library,” said Ron while Harry made a balancing act of slipping on his robes and trousers. “She left before I could wake up properly.”

“We’d better join her,” said Harry. “We have to have a proper talk with Krum and the other teachers today. No more feasts.”

They had been handsomely received by the staff of Durmstrang, and treated to a feast the likes of which Harry had not tasted since his school days. The castle halls were small but sumptuous, carved from ebony and marble and imbued with warming charms to ward off the early winter chill. Harry, Ron and Hermione had enjoyed the luxury of warming themselves by a fireplace and washing up in a real lavatory. After exchanging pleasantries, however, they had sought to discuss Salazar Slytherin with Krum and the other professors, only to have their questions evaded at every turn. The day after their arrival had been more of the same.

At present Harry was determined to get some answers out of Krum. He donned his winter cloak and followed Ron out of the ship. Together they cast cooling charms on the water to form patches of ice on which to tread across the lake. Harry eyed the stern-faced sentinels who circled them on their way up to the school. The climb up the mountain face to the castle gates was steep, and Harry and Ron slipped several times. At last they made it inside the entrance hall, where they were greeted by the mournful tones of a ghost choir.

Eleven wizards killed in the first Goblin rebellions of Norway roamed the corridors of Durmstrang with their translucent tunics bloodied, singing ballads of death and mourning. The sight of them made Harry feel freshly nostalgic for Hogwarts.

“Ron! Harry!”

Hermione was striding down an oak staircase towards them, accompanied by Viktor Krum. Ron puffed up like an angry porcupine, accidentally elbowing Harry in the ribs.

“I’ve been to see the Herbology teacher,” said Hermione with a significant look in their direction. “We need to talk.”

Harry turned to Krum. “Today is Saturday,” he said, his eyes watering. “The students will be on the grounds or in their dormitories, won’t they?”

Krum nodded.

“Then let’s speak in the dining hall,” Harry suggested. “And if we could gather the other teachers…”

“Perhaps another time,” Krum began.

“Perhaps now,” said Ron firmly.

Sighing, Krum held open the door to the dining hall for Hermione. The majority of the staff were assembled at the professors’ table, while the students had already vacated the hall. At the sight of Harry, Ron and Hermione, the teachers broke out into aggrieved muttering. Only Clara Ivanova, the Deputy Headmistress, waved them over and gestured to a set of empty chairs. While Krum took his place at the head of the table, Ivanova passed Harry a tray of sandwiches and jams.

“Thanks,” said Harry, keeping an eye on Ron. The latter had grown excitable during the previous feast upon discovering that the Deputy Headmistress was another former member of the Bulgarian national Quidditch team. After Igor Karkaroff’s death, Harry had learned, Durmstrang had fallen into the hands of a series of most unsuitable stewards. The students’ scores had suffered in accordance, until the Bulgarian Ministry had intervened and sought for a Headmaster a public figure who could wield the support of the board of governors. With over half a decade of successful Quidditch matches under his belt, Viktor Krum had agreed to helm the school on the condition that he be allowed to hire staff at his discretion.

The school had never been known to run so smoothly, according to Ivanova. Harry could not deny that the grounds looked well kept, and the halls orderly. Yet there was the troubling matter of the sentinels, and Krum’s silence.

Harry addressed the table. “Thanks for receiving us. We’d like to ask you some questions, if you’ve got the time.”

The caretaker made a disparaging noise. The librarian and the Potions master exchanged glances. Harry caught Hermione’s eye and saw his dismay mirrored there.

“We’d like to know why you have guards stationed all over the grounds, for one thing,” said Harry.

“And why all the plants in your greenhouses are dying,” Hermione added. When Harry frowned, she said, “It’s just like at Hogwarts. Do you remember how all the Flutterby bushes and the Venemous Tentacula were wilting? Here, too, all the plants are yellowed or dead.”

“You come to our school and demand to know these things,” scoffed Brandvold, the scowling Potions master. “Your arrogance is an affront to our halls.”

“We don’t mean any affront!” said Hermione in a small voice. “We only—”

“It is your doing that we are in these misfortunes,” said Brandvold.

“Enough!” said Krum. Brandvold’s glare curdled at the look on Krum’s face. “These are our guests, and they vill be treated vith respect.” He turned a wintry expression on Harry, Ron and Hermione. “You must excuse our staff. As you know, ve haff heard of the circumstances in vich the Statute of Secrecy fell.”

“That was a setup,” said Harry quickly. “We were lured out to that courtyard. We didn’t know there were video cameras running.”

“Hermione has already explained,” said Krum. “However, it is true that ve remain in a dire situation as a result.”

“What do you mean, dire?” asked Ron. “You seem cosy enough up here.”

“You said you were being watched?” added Hermione more gently.

“The Muggle government has eyes on the castle,” explained Ivanova. “It is our counterpart to your Supernatural Affairs Committee. Some veeks ago they managed to enter the grounds. There vos an… incident. A student vos taken.”

Krum looked deeply pained by the mention of it. Harry felt sick.

“Taken?” repeated Ron, who in his outrage had forgotten to be rude to Krum.

“A first year,” said Krum gravely. “Ve haff not been able to discover vere he vos taken. The three of you are vanted in this country, and so ve risk a great deal having you here. If the Muggle authorities vould find out that you are here, it vould put our students in even greater danger.”

The look on Hermione’s face was wretched. She reached across the table for Ron’s hand. Many of the teachers were watching them with pity, or outright hostility in their eyes.

“Why take us in, then?” Harry forced himself to ask. “Why not turn us away? I’m sure our Ministry has people searching the continent for us, as well. You don’t owe us anything.”

“I do not forget that you stopped me from harming Diggory ven I vos under the Impreius curse, during the final task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament,” said Krum. “Though Diggory vos still killed, it vos not by my hand. I do not take this lightly.”

Harry did not know what to say. His memories of that day had never left him feeling particularly heroic. Krum seemed to guess his discomfort. He rose from his seat.

“Ve must continue this conversation later,” he said. “It is time for my colleagues and I to begin preparations for the Quodpot World Cup.”

“The _what?_ ” said Ron.

“Quodpot,” Hermione told him. “It’s an American sport played on broomsticks, like Quidditch.”

“I know what Quodpot is! Why in Merlin’s name are you hosting the World Cup here?”

“The Magical Congress of the United States is most unhappy vith the fall of the Statute,” Krum explained. “They blame the European Ministires for being careless. Ve are attempting to establish diplomatic relations vith them, as the English Ministry is busy searching for you. Our grounds are ideal for Quodpot. Clara and myself vill be arbitrating. The match vill take place on All Hallow’s Eve.”

He snapped his fingers, and there was a loud _crack_. A house-elf with an upturned nose, clad in a pressed crimson uniform, appeared in their midst. The elf bowed so low that Harry feared he would tip over.

“Good morning, Hob,” said Krum. “Ven you are finished vith your duties, vould you please inform the other elves that they are needed on the Quidditch pitch?”

“Yes, Mr Krum, sir!” squeaked Hob. “I is finishing vith all morning duties very soon, sir!”

“Thank you, Hob.” In answer to Hermione’s curious look, Krum added, “All elves at Durmstrang are outfitted vith clothes. Durmstrang employs only free elves.”

Ron made a noise that sounded suspiciously like, “ _Pshah!_ ” Harry gave a loud cough.

Hermione was beaming. “And they get holiday pay, and sick leave, and things?”

But Ivanova shook her head. “Most of the elves on our staff come to us from the Romanian chapter of your organization, S.P.E.W. Here, the elves haff renamed it the Society for the self-Promotion of Elfish Vayfarers. They host their own meetings and dictate their own policy, and they ask for no pay. Many find payment of gold offensive. They are compensated for their labor vith room and board, as vell as education. Hob and his companions often sit in on classes at Durmstrang.”

“That’s very…” muttered Hermione uncertainly. “Well, I suppose… If it’s what they want…”

“Potter, Weasley,” said Krum. “Hermione. You are velcome anyvere on the grounds vile you remain vith us. I must take my leave.”

He and Ivanova vacated the hall, speaking in low voices. Under Brandvold’s baleful gaze, Harry, Ron and Hermione soon followed, making for the entrance hall. Before they could exit to the grounds, however, they were intercepted by a small squeaking noise. Ron threw out his arm and halted Harry before the latter could run over the tiny form of Hob the elf.

“Please, sirs and miss!” said Hob, bowing once more. “Hob is sorry to be bothering you.”

“It’s no bother, Hob,” said Hermione. “We’re pleased to meet you.”

“Hob is pleased to be meeting sirs and miss as vell.” He looked all around him furtively. “Headmaster Krum bids you all to come to his study tonight after the other professors is sleeping. The Headmaster asks that you make sure you is not seen.”

“What—” Ron began, but at that moment Brandvold strode out of the dining hall and Hob vanished.

“What do you reckon?” asked Ron some twenty minutes later, sliding to the ground after jumping off the lowest foothold on the mountain face. “Should we go to this thing with Krum?”

“Of course we should,” said Hermione. “He’s going to tell us what we need to know!”

“Or it could be a trap,” Ron muttered.

“Ron!”

“What? Maybe he wants to trade us for that student he lost. We couldn’t exactly blame him.”

“No,” said Hermione resolutely. “I think he wants to help. He’s frightened, can’t you tell? They all are.”

Ron was silent. Harry agreed with Hermione, but rather thought that there was something more to Krum’s reluctance to speak to them. When they had returned to the bank of the lake he recalled another question Krum had failed to answer.

“Do you think what’s happening in the greenhouses here is connected to what’s happening at Hogwarts?” he asked Hermione.

She looked pensive. “I think it has to be. It’s too much of a coincidence. But I have no idea what could be causing it. There’s no spell that can have an effect on such a large scale. I’ve been wondering—But no…”

“What?” Harry urged her.

“Well, I’ve been wondering if it could be something Muggle-made.” She looked sheepish. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t help thinking that if Muggles can track Apparition, they might be able to harm magical plants as well.”

“Actually, that makes a lot of sense,” said Harry, and Ron nodded.

The three of them stood under a spruce tree, watching the ship bob on the water. They might have been back at Hogwarts, tossing pastries to the giant squid from under the shade of their favourite beech tree. It was difficult to believe that the outside world could be in such disarray. Harry turned to address Ron and Hermione only to close his mouth with a snap. His two friends were huddled close together, their hands entwined and their heads resting against one another. Suddenly Harry missed Ginny so violently that it felt like an illness.

They waited until well past eleven that evening before making their way to the fifth floor of the castle. When they were certain that no prefects or teachers would be patrolling the corridors, they crept to the door of Krum’s study and knocked softly. The door swung open and Krum ushered them inside.

Harry had expected to see Quidditch trophies lining the walls, and perhaps copies of publications on whose cover Krum had appeared. Instead the room resembled a smaller version of Dumbledore’s office as Harry had known it. Portraits of previous Headmasters and Headmistresses hung behind a large oak desk. Most of the wall opposite was taken up by a roaring fireplace, atop which was mounted a cuckoo clock housing a tiny model Phoenix.

“I trust you vill speak of this to no one,” said Krum. “Vot I haff to say must not leave this room.”

“Of course,” said Harry.

Krum conjured a trio of goblets and offered them each a drink. Harry thought that Hermione was right. He did seem nervous.

“It is considered great treachery to reveal the secrets of our castle to outsiders,” said Krum. “My colleagues vould haff me removed from the school if they knew vot I vos about to show you. But I believe you haff a right to know. Hermione has told me vot you are looking for.”

“Information about Slytherin,” said Harry. “Anything you can tell us about the Founder’s Crossroads.”

“I think,” said Krum, “it vould be better if I show you.”

He waved his wand in the direction of the fireplace. There was a mighty rumble, followed by the hiss of air being released. The fireplace slid forward, revealing a passageway wide enough to fit four people comfortably.

“Hogwarts castle has a Chamber of Secrets,” Krum told them. “Here at Durmstrang, ve haff a secret library.”

Hermione looked close to swooning.

“Right, let’s go then,” said Ron, forging ahead into the passageway without invitation. Rows of torches roared magically to life.

“Many believe the library vos built by Grindelvad,” Krum explained as they climbed down a stairway into the darkness. “But this is false. In truth the library vos built by students in a time ven the school fell under the reign of another dark wizard, Harfang Munter, long before Grindelvald’s time. For years all our community’s most dangerous and valued information has been stored here.”

They reached the bottom of the staircase and Harry’s jaw dropped. Before them was a library the size of the Room of Lost things where Harry had found Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. The stacks stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with books as tall as a grown man or as small as a golden snitch. In some places the books hovered in the air unsupported, or else floated upwards and sorted themselves into piles of their own accord. Harry thought he could hear a book roaring in the distance.

“Here is vot you need,” said Krum, wending his way through cluttered aisles to a table laden with what looked like a leather-bound atlas. “The only true account of Salazar Slytherin’s travels after he left Hogwarts. A favorite subject of Nerida Vulchanova, the founder of Durmstrang. Here, you see, she has detailed Slytherin’s movements across the continent.”

Krum pointed to a map of Europe stretching across both pages of the atlas, where markings and explanations had indeed been inked in by a fading hand.

Hermione turned the page with an ecstatic sort of reverence.

“It says here that Slytherin asked Vulchanova to help him raise an army against Gryffindor!” she said excitedly, squinting at the ancient runic writing on the page. “But Vulchanova declined and banished him from the grounds.”

“Slytherin believed Gryffindor vos bent on ruining the might of Hogwarts by letting in Muggleborn students. But more than this, he told Vulchanova that Gryffindor’s folly vos a result of a curse Gryffindor had placed on himself. Slytherin believed that Gryffindor’s judgment had been forever altered, and this vos the cause of his softheartedness towards Muggleborns. Vulchanova saw this prejudice for vot it vos and turned Slytherin away. Still, she paid Gryffindor a visit to satisfy her curiosity. It appeared to her that Gryffindor vos changed, but this she attributed to the loss of his old friend, Slytherin. Gryffindor offered Vulchanova his congratulations on the construction of her school and recommended her a new method of overseeing the sorting of students. This vos shortly after the creation of the Sorting Hat, it is said. But at Durmstrang ve do not separate students into different houses.”

This was a greater length of speech than Harry had ever heard from Krum at one time. The command of the school seemed to have gone a long way towards curing him of his surliness.

“So we’re back where we started,” said Ron. “Skeeter wanted us to find out if Slytherin really knew Gryffindor’s secrets, but all we know is Slytherin was a git and Gryffindor was keen on his hat. Maybe the hat was evil. Maybe it insulted Slytherin’s hairstyle, or something.”

“But we’re not necessarily back to where we started,” Hermione countered. “We know Gryffindor did something in particular to make Slytherin believe he’d been compromised. And Vulchanova agreed that he seemed changed. There has to be more to it.”

“You may bring this book, but only this one, to the ship to study,” said Krum. “It must be returned before you leave Durmstrang, or it vill be missed.”

“Thank you!” Hermione exclaimed. “Oh, this is excellent. But… What about the greenhouses? Do you know anything about those?”

“I haff tried many spells to revive the plants that grow there,” said Krum. “I know nothing of why they are dying.”

They thanked Krum and returned to the ship with the book. Harry could see the glow from Hermione’s lamp in the next room burning late into the night and knew that she was devouring Vulchanova’s writings. He stared at the fissures in the ceiling for hours on end, consumed by fatigue but unable to sleep. He could not help pondering how Ginny and the other Weasleys were faring in the fallout from the end of the Statute of Secrecy. He guessed that Ginny would be with Neville and Luna somewhere, plotting ways of undermining the Ministry’s manhunt. Harry doubted whether he could ever forgive himself if she was put in harm’s way once again as a result of his actions.

Fall turned to early winter in earnest, and Harry, Ron and Hermione studied Vulchanova’s book as they awaited Rita Skeeter’s promised arrival to Durmstrang. Sleet battered the ship and reduced the grounds to a mess of mud and ice. Crookshanks, who had thus far delighted in roaming the grounds, was often found on the shores of the lake, pleading to be admitted to the warmth of the ship. Frustrated by the little they gleaned from the book, Harry took to observing the preparations for the Quodpot World Cup. He was impressed to see the construction of the stadium persist as bitter frosts enveloped the grounds, and the castle grew icy cold even in the heart of day.

Shortly before Halloween, guests began to arrive for the world cup. Krum had the prescience to house them in the castle rather than the ship, so that Harry, Ron and Hermione could remain hidden from potential spies for the American Ministry looking to track down those responsible for the fall of the Statute. It was nevertheless something of a distraction when the grounds became overrun with American wizards and witches speaking loudly of their predictions for the match and engaging in amateur games wherein dozens of Quodpots exploded violently in midair.

“I do wish they’d be quiet!” Hermione complained on Halloween morning, when an especially loud explosion sounded outside. She had been on edge since the arrival of the owl post, and Harry and Ron had instinctively kept their distance as she assaulted a slice of toast with a bread knife.

“I don’t know what more we’ll be able to get out of that book, anyhow,” Ron observed cautiously. “We’ve been through it a hundred times. Vulchanova doesn’t know what happened between Slytherin and the founder of Beauxbatons, but it can’t have been very exciting or we’d have learned it in History of Magic. Or you would have, anyway.”

“Oh, it’s not the book!” said Hermione, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “It’s Rita. She gave us until Halloween and she still hasn’t arrived.”

“Let’s face it, she’s not showing her face here,” Ron agreed. “We’ll just have to track her down back home, the scheming, double-crossing—”

“But she was meant to deliver our messages from home!”

“They know we’re all right and not to do anything rash,” said Ron in a quelling voice, looking to Harry in alarm at Hermione’s mounting panic. Harry thought he had an inkling what was wrong, but held his tongue.

“I was hoping that _someone_ would remember to let me know how I did on my NEWT’s,” said Hermione, cutting through her toast with undue force and continuing to slice at the tabletop. “Now I suppose I won’t find out for ages and ages.”

“You know you were top in everything,” said Ron. “And besides, anyone would hire you no matter your NEWT results. Gawain Robards has all our Chocolate Frog Cards in his collection, I’ve seen them.”

Hermione gave an uncertain chuckle and Ron relaxed.

“C’mon,” he said encouragingly, “let’s have a game of Exploding Snap. We’ve been studying that damn book for too long, I’m seeing runes every time I close my eyes.”

They whiled away most of the day in the mess hall playing Exploding Snap with a shockingly talented Hob, who had consented to taking the occasional day off for a trial period. When the sunlight began to dim they swallowed a precautionary dose of Polyjuice Potion provided by Brandvold to transform themselves into a trio of inoffensive Norwegian businessmen, bundled themselves up in borrowed furs and trekked across the East end of the grounds to the newly finished Quodpot stadium.

It lacked the grandeur of the Quidditch stadium the British Ministry had built in the summer after Harry’s third year, but it had a definite rustic charm. At least four thousand people had been crammed into a vast arena and seated on rough wooden benches. They huddled together for warmth, their breath fogging in the crisp October air. The field itself was nearly twice the length of a regulation Quidditch field. Krum and Ivanova sat in an elevated box at one end, equipped with what looked like a newer model of Omnioculars.

“Good evening, vitches, vizards, and honored guests!” boomed Ivanova, holding her wand to her throat. Harry, Ron and Hermione took a seat behind a bench full of boisterous American wizards dressed from head to toe in yellow and green.

“Velcome to the 225th annual Quodpot Vorld Cup!” Ivanova went on. “Ve are pleased to be hosting you, and ve thank you for being here vith us. And now, ve give you the team from Brazil!”

Eleven players flew onto the field in perfect arrowhead formation, a streak of eye-watering lemon yellow circling the pitch at top speed. The spectators roared their approval. Hundreds of wands were pointed skyward, shooting green sparks into the air.

“Look!” shouted one of the American wizards rapturously. “They’re riding _Firebolt Sevens!_ They’re only meant to be a prototype. I heard they can outfly a Welsh Green.”

“Taking on the Hungarians!” shouted Ivanova.

Eleven more players clad in deep red circled the pitch. The spectators responded by shooting crimson sparks into the sky. Harry felt fleetingly as though he were back at Hogwarts again, about to face off against Slytherin for the Quidditch cup.

Ivanova had lowered her wand. It was Krum’s turn to cast a _Sonorus_ charm upon himself.

“Honored guests,” he thundered, “let the match begin!”

He waved his wand, and a crate overflowing with Quods—large maroon balls similar to oversized Quaffles—appeared at the center of the field. At once, two of the players from each team launched into a vertiginous dive, speeding towards the crate at a breakneck pace. Just when it seemed a pileup was inevitable, three of the players pulled out of the dive while another shot up in a blur of yellow, Quod in hand.

The game proceeded so quickly that it was almost impossible to follow along. Harry barely glimpsed the Quods passing from hand to hand until one exploded in a burst of smoke and light. When a team managed to pass the Quod all the way to their end of the pitch, it was thrown into a basin of clear solution which prevented it from erupting. Though Harry had never been much devoted to Quodpot, he could not deny the prowess of the players. They moved seamlessly together, feinting and weaving, while Ivanova provided commentary and Krum magically refilled the crate of Quods at regular intervals.

“Would you look at that!” shouted one of the raucous American wizards after a particularly fine pass between two of the Hungarians. “No risk, no reward. Give me a couple’a broken teeth, like in the good old days.”

“The old lady really let me have it for taking time off to come to this thing,” his friend agreed. “But Rothfang would’ve canned me if I didn’t. Shoulda been us up there. The American team got robbed.”

Harry and Hermione glanced at one another sharply.

“What?” muttered Ron, looking between them in confusion.

“Rothfang,” said Harry quietly.

“The bloke from that _Prophet_ article? What’s he got to do with anything?”

“He’s a Squib. Flint said his orders to take us in came from a Squib.”

Ron frowned. “Oi!” he yelled at the Americans. “Who would you lot’ve favored for the semi-finals, then?”

The men turned around. One of them snorted.

“And who are you?” he asked.

“Dragomir Despard,” said Ron promptly. They shook hands.

“Pleased to meetcha, _Des_ -pard,” said the American. “Warren Ford. Yeah, I figured we’d have made the semi-finals at least, if we hadn’t lost to Canada in the openers. Who saw that one coming? And then Canada got beat by Croatia…”

“Right, right,” said Ron distractedly. “What did you say you do again?”

Ford looked taken aback, but flattered by the attention. “I didn’t. My friends and I here work for the Department of Secrecy and Obfuscation, back in Washington.”

“Secrecy and Obfuscation,” said Hermione. “That’s like the Department of Mysteries, isn’t it?”

“Sure is, lady. Top secret.”

“But you report to someone named Rothfang?” Harry chimed in.

“That’s right. All the Departments from the International Confederation do, don’t they? They don’t broadcast it, but it’s not hushed up, neither.”

“And Rothfang sent you here today?”

“He did, of course. Because—” Ford leaned back suddenly, squinting. “Say, why are you so curious?”

“Oh, no reason—”

“Are you reporters?”

“No, no—”

Ford drew his wand. Harry, Ron and Hermione were saved the trouble of engaging in an ill-advised duel when a blood-curdling scream rent the air. Whipping around, they saw that the entire crate of Quods at the center of the pitch had exploded at once, injuring several fliers. Three of the Brazilian players were sprawled on the field, stirring feebly.

There was a second, louder explosion. The far end of the stands had caught fire.

“It’s an attack!” cried Ron, jumping in front of Hermione and drawing his wand. Somehow, in the commotion, Ford and his companions had disappeared. The twilight was filled with screams. Harry saw hooded figures circling the pitch, closing ranks.

“How did they get past the guards?” screamed Hermione.

“Please!” boomed Krum’s voice. “Remain calm!”

“We have to go,” said Harry. “This can’t be a coincidence. They’re here for us. We can’t wait for Skeeter anymore.”

They ducked as a flaming projectile flew over their heads, narrowly avoiding decapitation. Curiously, Harry heard no curses uttered, and saw no spells flying. The crackling of flames grew louder. Harry tugged Ron and Hermione towards the bottom of the stands, where they made for the grounds.

“Our brooms!” said Hermione as they sprinted towards the edge of the grounds. “The book! We have to return the book to Viktor!”

As if in answer to her cries, Krum and Ivanova came running up to their end of the pitch at top speed. A colossal piece of the stands came hurtling out of the sky, headed directly for Krum.

“ _Confringo!_ ” yelled Ron, blasting the bench out of the way at the last moment.

Krum turned a stunned face towards him, but seemed to recognize Ron through the Polyjuice potion.

“Thank you,” he said. In the chaos his accent had thickened. “Herm-own-ninny. Ronald. Harry. You must leave now. It is not safe for you here anymore.” He waved his wand and conjured their broomsticks. “Until ve meet again.”

He clasped each of their hands in turn. Ron and Hermione hopped astride a broom.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” asked Harry.

Ivanova shook her head. “It is the Muggles. Ve are at greater risk if you remain here. You must go.”

“We’re sorry for all this,” said Harry, climbing onto the second broom. “We never meant to put anyone in danger.”

“This vos not your doing,” said Krum. “Now go!”

They kicked off and flew into the gathering dark, speeding in the opposite direction from the explosions. Just as they began to skirt the castle Hermione gasped.

“Crookshanks!” she shouted.

Harry swore and flew lower, scanning the grounds. In the darkness it was difficult to distinguish shapes, let alone movement. At last he spotted a blur of orange out of the corner of his eye and dove. To his relief, Crookshanks allowed himself to be scooped up and sat docilely on the front of Harry’s broom.

As he pulled out of the dive Harry thought, for a moment, that he could see a strange, shimmering wave ripple along the surface of what must have been the protective enchantments surrounding the school. Then he and Crookshanks were speeding towards the front gates of the grounds, closely followed by Ron and Hermione, leaving an inferno of screams and chaos in their wake.


	10. The Sorting Hat's First Song

DRACO

Draco was flicking his thumb idly against the glass cage when he heard a key turn in the lock.

He sat back at once and adopted a morose expression. The inert form of Cassandra Trelawney was slumped at the center of the room. Just as Draco was wondering whether she might be struck by the door, she scrambled to the corner at a remarkable speed and hunkered down, immobile.

Rothfang entered the room whistling to himself.

“Listen,” said Draco, a little hoarsely. His voice had fallen into disuse. “If you want information on Potter, I can give it to you.”

Rothfang ignored him, but waved futilely in Cassandra’s direction.

“I know Potter,” Draco insisted. “I went to school with him.”

He did not think Rothfang could have succeeded in offing Potter, if indeed that had been his plan. It did not seem possible that the Chosen One could defeat the whole of the Dark Lord’s army, only to be killed by a Squib.

“All you have to do is let me go, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Draco went on.

At this Rothfang finally looked around.

“So quick to betray old friends,” he said.

Passing over the dispiriting notion that he and Potter might ever have been friends, Draco shrugged.

“If you don’t let me go, my father will ruin you,” he said.

“Your father, like the rest of the world, believes you are dead, boy.”

If Draco had still been in possession of his wand, he would have hexed Rothfang into a bloody mass on the floor. There had been ample time to cultivate his hatred while he had remained locked up. He had tried to count the days at first, making it as far as three weeks before the hours started to blur together. Draco refused to believe that he would be left to rot in the Department of Mysteries forever. Instead he waited, and seethed, and prepared himself for Rothfang’s return. He would see Rothfang crushed into pulp.

“You’re lying,” he spat.

“I assure you that I am not. It would never do to have the Malfoys poking their noses in where they do not belong in search of their son. Much easier to simply put it about that you were gone. There was a funeral service.”

“No.” His mother would have wanted his body recovered. Of that, Draco was certain. She would never have believed it.

Rothfang drew a folded copy of the _Prophet_ from his sleeve and tossed it at Draco. It was dated to the fifteenth of August. The headline glared: _Draco Malfoy, 19, confirmed dead in Ministry explosion; family inconsolable at funeral, unavailable for comment…_

“You’ll pay for this,” hissed Draco. “My family will never let you live. You’ll be turned to _dust_ —”

Rothfang seized him unceremoniously by the collar and dragged him to his feet.

“Time for an outing,” he said.

Draco experienced a moment of dizzying fright as he was dragged through the door. There had been a small lavatory adjoined to the room he shared with Cassandra, and a pile of books on the shelf. These had been the extent of his world for several months. The wide open space of the Department of Mysteries pressed in on him from all sides. Draco sagged on his feet.

They were not in the same corridor through which they had first entered the Department. Somehow, Rothfang had taken them through the door to an entirely different enclosure. Here the walls were as insubstantial as the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. Diaphanous sheets of rain fell from the ceiling, vanishing just a few inches above Draco’s head. The corridor seemed to stretch on into darkness as far as the eye could see, with the occasional lightning strike illuminating the walls in the distance.

Draco’s father had spoken to him once about the oldest sectors of the Department of Mysteries, where Unspeakables had sought in the past to develop charms that could regulate the seasons themselves. These experiments were meant to have been condemned during Artemisia Lufkin’s run as Minister. It would certainly be alarming if Rothfang had managed to gain access to them.

“Where are we going?” asked Draco. “I’m not moving until you tell me where we are.”

Rothfang produced a silver dagger and placed its point against Draco’s throat, prodding him forward.

“Your _pure_ blood is of little value to me,” said Rothfang. “I will not hesitate to spill it.”

Draco swallowed. His pride, his fear, his curiosity, everything would have to be set aside once again until he was able to find a way out of this mess. He nodded.

Rothfang directed him several hundred yards down the corridor, past patches of snow and strong winds, until they came to a stretch of wall every bit the same as the rest. Draco counted the number of steps that took him there.

“Bagnold,” said Rothfang, and the wall before them dissolved, revealing a steel door. Rothfang opened it using a small bronze skeleton key.

On the other side was the Hall of Prophecy. Draco had heard it described many times. It was here that his father had lost the Dark Lord’s prophecy to Potter. Nothing had gone quite right after that.

“You are familiar?” said Rothfang.

“I thought it would be bigger,” Draco muttered.

Rothfang chuckled. “But this is not the first Hall of Prophecy. No, boy, it is the second. Sealed off during the Reformation of the Ministry.”

“The what?”

“Do they not teach Purebloods their history anymore? After Grindelwald’s war was ended, and the hatred of the vanquished spread to Britain, there was a very ugly period in the Ministry’s story. Much of it was quelled when Millicent Bagnold took office, but the black mark on our record remains. The oldest sectors of the Department of Mysteries were put to a very terrible use indeed. What was done will never be erased.”

With each step Rothfang took, charmed torches roared to life at either side of him, bathing the rows upon rows of shelved prophecies in a preternatural violet glow. The low-hanging ceiling and expanse of glittering orbs almost gave Draco the impression that he was back in his Hogwarts dormitory under the lake, sharing the tale of the Chamber of Secrets with an audience of frightened first years. Only this time, he was the uninitiated. His was the feeling of dawning horror.

“What was done?” he repeated.

Rothfang did not answer. They had come to a wide stone basin, suspended in midair and filled with a swirling silvery substance. Behind it was a shelf lined with crystal phials.

“Memories?” said Draco. “You brought me here to show me a load of bloody memories?”

“Seers’ memories,” Rothfang specified. “More specifically, the memories of prophecies, which, like prophecies themselves, can only be viewed by those about whom they are made.”

Rothfang forced Draco’s hand towards the nearest shelf, closing his fingers around a phial labeled “ _Wand of Destiny, Master_.”

“I’m not the Master of the Elder Wand,” said Draco in a panic, straining away from the phial. “I haven’t been for ages.” It was Potter. Always Potter.

But Rothfang forced him to remove the phial from the shelf. Cringing, Draco watched as his hand was lifted to the Pensieve’s surface. Rothfang uncapped the phial and tipped its contents into the basin. Draco expected perhaps to feel a bout of nausea, or unbearable pain. When nothing of the sort occurred, he drew forward.

“Pay close attention,” said Rothfang. Then he shoved Draco face first into the Pensieve.

The world tipped and swayed. Landscapes flew past until Draco’s feet landed on solid ground and he found himself standing in the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower. The one place in the world Draco was least keen to revisit. He felt his hatred for Rothfang rise higher.

A sudden movement startled him and Draco turned to see a lovely, wild-haired witch in a deerskin cloak leaning over the windowsill. Though he had only seen her painted at a more advanced age, he thought he could recognize the austere features of Rowena Ravenclaw.

“Eala! Her bio sneawgebland!” she said.

Her companion, a bearded wizard with keen grey eyes, muttered something unintelligible, and Draco’s jaw dropped. It was Salazar Slytherin. The pair of them were speaking old English, Draco surmised, for he could not follow a single word of their exchange. He shrank in on himself, though he knew there was no possibility of Slytherin or Ravenclaw seeing him.

Dark clouds marred the horizon, heralding a storm. Rowena was gesticulating in their direction. Looking harassed, Salazar waved his wand at the window and caused a haze to dance across the sky. Both Founders turned tail and swept down the staircase. Draco hastened to follow them, fascinated.

Salazar’s strides were long. Draco was soon out of breath, stumbling on the roughly hewn tower steps. He could have sworn that some of the windows he had known in his time had not yet been carved out. Near the foot of the tower, Salazar and Rowena were stopped by a round-faced woman in plain yellow robes, who could be no one but Helga Hufflepuff.

Draco ranked this at the very top of his not inconsiderable list of bizarre experiences. Helga’s words were incomprehensible, but her expression was easy to read: she pointed grimly down the corridor towards the Great Hall. Salazar looked less than pleased, but followed with ill grace, Draco close behind.

The Great Hall itself was roughly the size of a classroom. It was absent the enchanted ceiling, but counted nearly twice as many levitating candles as the hall of modern times. At its center sat a wooden stool bearing a pristine, regal wizard’s hat. It was not until a section of the hat’s brim unstitched itself and began to move that Draco recognized it for what it was.

The Sorting Hat recited a garbled monologue, of which Draco thought he caught a few stray words. To his surprise, Salazar, Rowena, and Helga hung back, muttering amongst themselves and looking askance at the hat. While Rowena and Helga seemed merely anxious, Salazar actually looked enraged. He tapped his wand restlessly against his leg, emitting occasional brilliant grey sparks. When at last the hat was finished, it was Helga who spoke.

“Godric!” she cried.

Draco stepped out of the way just in time. It occurred to him that the figures in this memory could simply pass through him, but he was nevertheless glad that he darted aside before the fourth Founder could stride right through his form.

Godric Gryffindor was broad-shouldered, lively, and a great orator. His words seemed to electrify his compatriots, all but Salazar, who continued to glare daggers from the doorway. As Gryffindor paced back and forth before the hat, he became increasingly agitated, producing his wand and pointing between it and the hat repeatedly. Helga gasped, clutching at her heart.

Abruptly, Salazar raised his wand and sent a blinding curse in Gryffindor’s direction. The latter dove out of the way, knocking the hat to the ground in the process, so that Salazar’s curse struck the head table behind him. The table caught fire. With a sigh, Rowena flicked her wand and extinguished the flames.

Helga was waving her arms and attempting to step between the two furious men. Ignoring her, Gryffindor raised his wand in retaliation. This time his cursed passed through Draco. The effect was unnerving. There was no sensation, but Draco saw a dazzling light behind his eyelids and scrambled back, flailing his arms madly. He retreated into the entrance hall, where the open oak doors afforded him a view of the grounds. Muted applause could be heard in the distance. Squinting, Draco glimpsed two dozen students engaging in broomstick races, skirting the treetops of the forbidden forest. And there was something else…

It was fortunate for the Founders that the school was emptied, for anyone who ventured past the oak front doors would be greeted by a frightful sight. The body of a young wizard, clearly dead, was sprawled on the grass in front of the entrance way. Draco approached and made to roll the body over with the point of his shoe, before remembering that he had no physical presence in this memory.

Salazar appeared behind Draco and performed the task of turning the young wizard over himself. Draco recoiled: there was a trickle of blood running from the dead man’s nose. His eyes were glassy and vacant. Exerting a great deal of control to avoid thinking of a sea of slaughtered goblins on his family’s drawing room floor, Draco leaned down to examine the wizard more closely.

There was a gold pendant hanging from his neck, embossed with an ornate insignia Draco found vaguely familiar. He had seen the dragon on the coat of arms somewhere before.

Gryffindor had approached. He and Salazar remained engaged in a blazing row, with Godric indicating the students flying in the distance. Salazar tapped at the dragon pendant, spitting unfamiliar curses. At last, Draco made the connection. The dead wizard was a Pureblood. The coat of arms belonged to an old Pureblood family, perhaps the Fawleys or the Burkes; Draco was too shaken to recall which.

Salazar clutched at the pendant. For the first time, Godric looked abashed. He extended his hand, entreating, but Salazar turned away. Draco was desperate to know what had caused the rift between them. He had never heard of this particular altercation in any of the Sorting Hat’s songs.

To his bewilderment, a hand fell on his shoulder before he could discover any more, and Rothfang’s voice spoke in his ear.

“That will be enough.”

Draco was jerked upward and landed back in the Hall of Prophecy. Immediately, he dropped to his hands and knees and began to make violent retching sounds.

“Get up,” said Rothfang harshly. “What on earth are you playing at?”

“You’ve been having trays of cold cottage pie conjured into my room every day,” said Draco weakly. “It doesn’t agree with me. I—I’ve been ill. The fall through the Pensieve…”

This was a tactic that had served Draco well with one of the family elves, before Potter—always Potter—had tricked the creature free. At the age of eight Draco had enlisted Dobby to Apparate him away from the Manor against Narcissa’s wishes, under the pretext of taking Draco urgently to Saint Mungo’s for a stomach complaint. Dobby had been punished severely when the scheme had been discovered, but in the meantime, Draco had been able to slip off to attend a Quidditch match in London with Theodore Nott.

“Would his highness prefer rice pudding?” said Rothfang, tugging at Draco’s robes to lift him to his feet.

Draco made a split-second decision. Before he was fully upright, he lunged for Rothfang’s midsection and attempted to rip away that ridiculous wand the latter kept holstered at his belt. At the same moment, he fumbled with his left hand for several of the phials labeled “ _Wand of Destiny, Master_.”

Rothfang snarled. Rearing back, he delivered a backhand to the side of Draco’s face. His strength was quite disproportionate to his age. Draco tasted blood in his mouth and snatched his hand back from the wand holster. Under cover of Rothfang’s rage, he had the chance to slip the phials in his pocket. Unfortunately, he saw at once in his captor’s eyes that he was to pay for his effrontery.

Seizing him roughly by the hair, Rothfang forced Draco’s head back and poured the contents of a flask down his throat. The moment the liquid touched Draco’s tongue, the world burst into flames. He was suffocating. He felt as though smoke were filling his lungs, searing him from the inside out.

Draco only vaguely registered being dragged away, back through the enchanted corridor to his room. Once inside, Rothfang threw him onto the cot and shook him until his head lolled back and forth. He spoke, too, but Draco could not hear him. Everything was fire and pain.

“What was the sign?” Rothfang repeated, striking Draco twice more to get his attention. “The records state that the Seer saw a symbol on the dead man’s pendant. What was it?”

“The—the—” Draco coughed. The pain was blinding. “The records?”

“Seers have been housed in the Department for centuries, and in the cellars of the very wealthy for millennia before,” said Rothfang impatiently. “Their prophecies, their memories, have been harvested. Never before has a Master of the Elder Wand been located, thus historians and Unspeakables have been unable to access the memories of the prophecies concerning them directly. Prophetic memories, as I have stated, can only be accessed by those about whom they are made. The Department has had only written accounts of the Seers’ memories to go on. It is all written down in the old record rooms. So do not try to deceive me. I know that the dead man wore a pendant. Now, you are going to tell me what was on it.”

“A d—dragon,” stammered Draco. “Please…”

Rothfang closed his eyes. “Good,” he murmured. “A dragon. Yes.”

“Please,” Draco repeated, more faintly. “Water.”

“The potion I have given you is not lethal,” said Rothfang disdainfully, turning away. “Its effects will last two hours, at most. Long enough to teach you a very important lesson: do not _ever_ attempt to steal my wand.” He lifted his hand in a cheerful wave. “So long, Cassandra.”

Draco lost several moments of consciousness to the fire clawing up his throat. When he was able to open his eyes again, Rothfang was gone, and someone was stroking a cool hand across his forehead. Draco grimaced in disgust.

Cassandra Trelawney was crouched over him, her withered lips twisted in a toothless grin.

“What do you want?” Draco rasped.

“Even breaths will ease the pain,” she said. Her voice was ruined, hardly audible. Draco made a feeble attempt to pull away, but his strength had deserted him. He was at the mercy of a crone. Pathetic.

Resigned, Draco forced himself to take steady breaths for several minutes, until the pain slowly began to ebb.

“Brilliant,” he muttered furiously. “What the hell was in that potion?”

“Liquid Fiendfyre,” croaked Cassandra. “Very diluted, but an exquisite torture all the same. You bore it well, son of Malfoy.”

The potion’s effects had been but a fraction of the agony the Dark Lord could inflict. Still, Draco did not like to think what Rothfang might do if he ever grew angry again.

“How long until he comes back?” Draco asked.

“Sometimes young Rothfang is away for many months,” said Cassandra. “Sometimes he returns day by day.”

“ _Young_ Rothfang?” Draco scoffed. “How old are _you_ , anyway, two hundred?”

“Older than anyone you know,” was her only response.

Draco considered her. She showed a great deal more vitality now that Rothfang was gone. Her gnarled hands were steady as they lifted Draco’s head to place it on a stack of pillows.

“I don’t suppose you’d happen to have a wand, would you?” he asked.

Cassandra shook her head.

“Broken.” There was pain in her voice now, even Draco could hear it. “Long before Rothfang.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Long.”

Though the flames had dulled, Draco experienced a final stab of fire and cringed. Cassandra eyed him intently.

“In your pockets,” she said. “You carry something of great value.”

Draco had not intended to share his hard-won prize with her, but there seemed little point in lying. He produced the phials. Cassandra held them up to the light.

“Two of these are my own,” she said. “The others are older. Much older.”

“I don’t know why the hell I was able to take them,” Draco muttered. “I don’t have the Elder Wand. I never had it.”

“When one becomes master of the Wand of Destiny, one is marked for life,” said Cassandra quietly. “You are a piece of history, son of Malfoy. You were chosen.”

For a moment, Draco expected to look around and discover that she was speaking to Potter, instead.

In spite of himself, he asked, “Is that why you said Rothfang was going to kill the Boy Who Lived? Because Potter got the Elder Wand in the end?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Young Rothfang’s story is a sad one.”

“That’s so very helpful,” said Draco sarcastically. “Thank you for making yourself clear.”

Cassandra merely blinked at him.

Draco rolled his eyes. “While we’re at it, I don’t suppose you want to predict what’s going to happen to us? Are we going to make it out of here alive?”

At this, Cassandra smiled.

“No.”


	11. The Centaur Liberation Front

FIRENZE

Mars shone brightly above the treetops.

It was a symbol of conflict. The summons Firenze had received would be a call to arms.

He had trod the forest alone since leaving his post at Hogwarts. The trees had guided him, keeping him well clear of Bane and the rest of his former clan. He was a Centaur without a home, without kin, which was really no Centaur at all. But he feared that the cost of rejoining his clan would be a steep one.

A furtive, many-legged creature scurried underfoot, but beat a hasty retreat at the sound of Firenze’s hooves scraping against the ground. The wide berth given the Centaurs by defenseless creatures evinced the need for gentleness and compassion: this was a lesson often repeated by Ronan, who had led Firenze’s first hunt. Yet, to Ronan’s mind, the Wizarding folk of the castle did not merit this same care. It weighed on Firenze to see the youths of the clan trail after Ronan in idolatry, learning fear and mistrust in one breath with wisdom and survival.

In the time it had taken Firenze to follow the stars to the North end of the forest, many others had already gathered at the Oak Parthenon. Here a natural depression in the forest floor allowed pockets of subterranean water to rise to the surface, attracting hosts of swamp-dwelling Hinkypunks. More smoke than flesh, the demons were no threat to the Centaurs. Their lanterns bobbed to and fro across the muddy expanse of vines and fallen Pines, offering natural illumination on moonless nights. All around the swamp Centaurs had taken great pains to grow a barrier of Oak trees to keep penned in the accused brought to the Parthenon for sentencing, and to ward off intruders.

Currently the enclosure was packed fuller than Firenze had seen it since long before his first hunt. Every Centaur able to cross the forest, old and young, had answered the call.

Ronan stood proud by the Parthenon’s East border, raised above all others on a dome woven of vines and Cedar. To his left stood Nessus, and her silver-haired grandfather, venerable Chiron. To his right were Bane and Magorian, newest appointees to the council of five.

Firenze noticed that many of the Centaurs he had known as a foal nodded discreetly at his passage, casting nervous looks in the council’s direction.

The assembly was called to attention when Ronan uttered a primordial cry, of the kind Firenze had come to associate with his own misdeeds. His instinct remained to stand straight at the sound, head held high in an admission of remorse.

“My kin!” boomed Ronan. “You have answered my call. I see many faces here tonight, new and old, whose loyalty I shall not forget. You are entitled now to the full truth of that which the stars may not yet display.”

A ripple of unease spread through the crowd. It was known that Centaurs of the Eastern forest paths did not hold to the dictates of the stars so firmly as those of the West. Ronan, though serving in the East, had been born in the far reaches of a Western hollow. His words struck unease in the minds of the clan’s elders. Fifty pairs of eyes fixed upon Ronan with renewed attention.

“For many seasons now have the humans profaned our forest with merchants stripping wandwood from our homes, and dark mages treading on lands rightfully ours. The ink on their decrees may have emboldened them, but we do not recognize their claim to our territories. Though we extended them a hand in comradeship during the Dark Lord’s battle, they have refused us the respect we are owed. We have fought the injustice dealt by Wizarding forces, and we have bled for our kin!”

Bane and Chiron were nodding solemnly. Many of the foals in attendance wore rapturous expressions, as though Ronan’s words were a revelation. Firenze’s unease grew.

“But today, at last, the humans go too far!” Ronan thundered.

He nodded over his shoulder, and a pathway was cleared in the throng to make way for a pair of Centaurs carrying a third figure on their backs. Groans of dismay were heard all around the Parthenon.

The inert form of Raif, a Centaur no more than a few seasons old, was lowered to the ground at Ronan’s feet. His eyes were vacant, reflecting only starlight.

“This monstrosity has been the work, not of the school of wizards, but of Mugglekind,” said Ronan. He need no longer shout. His voice carried over the preternatural silence that had settled on the assembly. “Yes, that is the truth. Muggles, who have so boldly invaded Wizarding lands just as our lands were invaded, now go further. They venture into our forest, slaughter our kin. I ask you, friends, will you stand with me against this injustice?”

A murmur of assent rose from the crowd.

“Will you stand with me?” Ronan repeated.

The Centaurs roared their approval. Somewhat to his own surprise, Firenze found himself cheering along with them. There were tears in his eyes; he had known Raif for a very good sort.

Ronan nodded again. Through his nascent fervor Firenze noticed that Bane looked reluctant this time. For a moment nothing happened, and then Firenze understood.

A stout-legged creature with coal-black eyes had slunk into view before the council. The Centaurs stiffened. Many hissed obscenities in his direction. The creature appeared superbly unconcerned, and surveyed them all with thinly veiled contempt, waiting for Ronana to speak.

Firenze had met a Goblin but once before, at the castle during the Dark Lord’s great battle. Heartened by the chance to fight side by side with another being so unlike himself, he had given little credence to the commonly held Centaur prejudice that all Goblins were creeping, half-formed miscreants. He could see, however, that many of his kin did not agree. Ronan himself was looking at the Goblin with unconcealed dislike.

“My kin, I ask you to heed me,” cried Ronan. “Who among you has observed the stars of late? Who among you has seen in their portents, as I have, the return of a great and ancient reign?”

Firenze had seen it. The conflict ushered in so brusquely by the Dark Lord’s resurrection had passed, and in its place the stars revolved in a very old, familiar pattern. The Centaurs kept no records of the skies, but rather passed down the progress of the stars in stories told from one generation to the next. Firenze recalled hearing of this celestial alignment as a foal. Like most of his kind, he took its resurgence to mean that the calm disrupted by the Dark Lord was to be restored.

But the word of the heavens was murky and uncertain, even to the Centaurs.

“Mugglekind has defied the stars!” Ronan went on. “They have declared battle on wand-carriers in utter folly, and against all odds, they have emerged victorious. The time has come to remove the scales from our eyes, friends. The Muggles have evolved faster than Centaurs had foreseen, and so to outwit them, the Centaurs must evolve as well.”

“Then send away the Goblin!” cried a callow young Centaur from somewhere near the front. There were shouts of encouragement, quelled almost at once by Ronan’s scowl.

“Goblinkind has led rebellions against wand-carriers in the past.” Ronan swept them all with a glare. He looked as though the words were wrenched from him with great pain. “We here would do well to recall that there are things we stand to learn from our fellow beings. As we speak, envoys have been sent to the Giants of the mountain clans. There is no wisdom in turning away a willing ally.”

Magorian’s lip was curled in distaste. Chiron looked most unhappy. It was his granddaughter, instead, who cleared her throat to speak.

“You see before you the Goblin Griphook of Littlemoor,” she said. “Ousted from his stewardship of Wizarding gold by the usurpers of Gringotts, he has pledged his kin to our cause. His assistance will double our numbers.”

“Even so,” called the same callow Centaur, who was hardly more than a foal, “you cannot expect us to take on the Ministry in full force!”

“The Wizarding Ministry of Britain is among the most securely guarded in the Commonwealth of Nations,” said Nessus. “It will not serve us to approach it outright.”

“We will first confront those more vulnerable establishments on the continent,” said Ronan. “Once we have amassed further numbers there, we shall return from abroad with strength on our side.”

His eyes were alight with conviction. It struck Firenze how greatly Ronan must believe in his cause, to invite even sworn enemies to fight by his side. Not only was the Goblin there, but Firenze, too, who had betrayed the principles Ronan held most dear.

“My kin, do I have your support?” cried Ronan once more.

This time the trees shook with the Centaurs’ response. Firenze howled at the top of his voice, his eyes trained on the dead form of Raif.

“But how are we to make our way abroad?” asked a lone dissenter at the back of the assembly. “Are we to board a ship?”

At this Ronan gave way to Bane, who smiled.

“There is a tunnel,” he said, “running underground from Folkenstone to Coquelles.”

***

HARRY

Harry slept poorly on the nights following the Quodpot World Cup. Far from regretting the warm hearths and soft beds of the Durmstrang ship now that he was back to sleeping on thistles, he felt a hard pit of guilt in his stomach every time he thought of the flames devouring the Durmstrang grounds. His every instinct had called Harry to return and fight alongside Krum, for all that he knew his presence would have done more harm than good.

As the days shortened and Winter settled in, Harry could tell by the often irritable and short-winded conversations he shared with Ron and Hermione that they, too, were dispirited by the progress of their venture. He did his utmost to keep them from falling into discord as they had done while hunting for Horcruxes. At every opportunity Harry risked jaunts into Muggle cities while wearing the cloak, returning with local delicacies to serve for dinner. Each time, he also caught a glimpse of his face gazing out from a wanted poster.

At Hermione’s insistence, they eschewed the coast and made a beeline for the South of France by way of Luxembourg, where a loophole in Wizarding law permitted unregistered foreign Portkeys to be pushed through the Office of Magical Transportation for approval without documentation.

“If we can’t Apparate, we’re not risking a Portkey,” argued Ron when Hermione raised the subject at the end of November. As they had moved South through Germany the weather had steadily improved, so that they no longer spent their evenings casting ineffectual warming charms with increasing aggravation. Ron and Hermione were sitting cross-legged by a jar of Hermione’s perennial bluebell flames, while Harry paced the periphery of the clearing where they had settled, keeping watch.

“No, no, we shouldn’t travel by Portkey,” Hermione agreed. “But there’s a chance we’ll be able to pick up news from home there. Luxembourg is a mecca for Wizarding commerce, according to the _Potioneer’s Quarterly_. I went there with mum and dad when we traveled to France the Summer after second year.” She wrinkled her nose. “There was so much black market business, they were selling Class A Non-Tradable goods in broad daylight.”

“George’d love that,” said Ron.

Hermione looked reproachful. “Of course, it could be dangerous.”

“We’re wanted fugitives in every country in the world,” Harry chimed in over his shoulder. “How much more dangerous can it get?”

“I don’t think we should be taking any of this lightly,” said Hermione testily. “We don’t know what we’ll find in France and—”

“We’ll find out when we get there,” said Ron firmly, in a tone that said _Drop it, already_.

Before Hermione could voice a retort, there was a rustling noise from a nearby copse of trees. Though they had cast their customary protective enchantments, Harry quickly threw the Invisibility cloak over himself, Ron and Hermione, while Hermione Disillusioned their feet.

For a moment the forest was plunged in silence, and Harry held his breath.

“I told you we should have camped further from the road,” moaned Hermione, barely moving her lips.

“Last time you walked us right into a swamp,” whispered Ron.

Harry stomped on his foot. A familiar, minuscule man with a mane of grizzled hair had emerged from the trees.

“ _That’s Barnabus Cuffe_ ,” mouthed Hermione, and Harry recognized the wizard he had seen on photographs in Horace Slughorn’s office.

Cuffe was joined by a second man with a hooked nose, who looked thoroughly dispirited by his surroundings. This time it was Ron who stirred excitedly.

“Dragomir Gorgovitch!” he said. Harry could tell by his tone that they were thinking the same thing: What could a former Quidditch star and the Editor of the _Daily Prophet_ be doing together in the woods outside a small town in Germany?

Cuffe pulled a gold pocket-watch from his robes and peered at it over his spectacles, tapping his foot. Harry heard Hermione whisper a spell, and suddenly he could hear twigs snapping under Cuffe’s feet. Gorgovitch let out an exasperated sigh that was clear as day.

“Remind me again why we’re meeting this charlatan in the middle of nowhere?” asked Gorgovitch.

“Best to change the meeting place,” said Cuffe, unperturbed. “Too many Muggles at the farmhouse.”

Gorgovitch sniffed. “He’s late.”

Cuffe was not listening. A streak of orange had caught his eye. To Harry’s horror, Crookshanks, who had been away for most of the evening hunting voles, scampered into view. Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged panicked glances, but Cuffe only smiled.

“Hello there,” he said, crouching low to scratch between Crookshanks’ ears. The latter moved unerringly to Cuffe’s side and raised himself to paw at his robe pockets.

“Carrying Kneazleweed, Cuffe?” said Gorgovitch without humour.

Smiling, Cuffe revealed the contents of his pockets. He held out a small wax paper parcel, in which was wrapped an iced lemon cake. Crookshanks seized it between his teeth and carried it away, tail swinging.

“Odd little fellow,” said Cuffe fondly.

“Wonder where he could have come from,” said Gorgovitch, who looked more suspicious than amused.

“The woods are full of these creatures,” Cuffe replied. “Now that the Supernatural Committees have risen to power, many Wizarding families are abandoning their homes, and leaving their pets behind if need be.”

“Pests,” muttered Gorgovitch.

A throat was cleared. This time, Harry had trouble keeping silent as a third man emerged from the trees. Furtively, with many sidelong glances, Ludo Bagman stepped into the open. He nodded to Cuffe and Gorgovitch. His hand remained in his pocket, where Harry was certain it must be clenched around his wand.

Bagman had not aged well. His hair had thinned considerably since Harry had last seem him, and the jovial roundness to his features had turned to a pallid, aged sag that gave him the appearance of being worn down by life. Yet his robes remained cut of the finest violet materials, suggesting that he had yet to relinquish his lavish lifestyle.

“Found the place all right, did you?” said Bagman.

“Evidently,” Gorgovitch replied.

Bagman looked uncomfortable. “I had the impression that I would be meeting Celestina.”

“If you have a problem with either of our work—” Gorgovitch began loudly.

Cuffe stepped between them. “There was an incident with Cake,” he said, placing particular emphasis on the word _cake_. Harry looked at Ron and Hermione to see that they shared his confusion. “Warbeck had to step in and take care of it while Millie is… indisposed. One of my sources in the American Magical Congress has reported some shady business to do with the attacks on Durmstrang. I volunteered myself and Dragomir to meet with you in Warbeck’s stead while traveling up to Norway to verify the story.”

“Of course, of course,” said Bagman, nodding. “You’ll have to forgive my lateness. I was intercepted.” He spoke this last with a significant look at Cuffe, who groaned.”

“What did she want?”

“Same as always. She had all sorts of questions about Cake.”

“I’ll do my best to keep her off your trail,” said Cuffe without conviction.

“Yes, well,” muttered Bagman. “Let us hope she stays two paces behind.”

“If you two don’t mind,” Gorgovitch interjected, “we don’t have all night.”

“Right.” Bagman clapped his hands together. “Shall we make the trade, then?”

He reached into his cloak and produced a rectangular box rather disproportionate to the size of his pockets. Harry could only assume his cloak was imbued with undetectable extension charms, because the box had to be at least six feet long. Its weight threatened to crush Cuffe, who hid it quickly beneath the folds of his own cloak with the help of a few spells.

“A good job I was able to get my hands on it,” said Bagman of the box. “Tracking down Augusta Longbottom alone was a feat. But I’ve amassed a few favors through the years. Tell Millie she owes me for this one.”

In return, Cuffe handed Bagman a single scroll of parchment sealed in emerald wax.

“This should keep the Goblins off your back for the time being,” he said. “Though I don’t know that I can say the same for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I must say, that debacle was hardly my fault. Many of the families who lost it all when the Dark Lord fell have been stoking the fire with these Supernatural Affairs Committees. I wouldn’t put it past the Selwyns or the Malfoys to have staged that whole incident with the water main…”

Gorgovitch snorted. “I doubt the Malfoys are involved. The way I hear it, they’re far too busy making a great show of mourning their brat to leave the house.”

Bagman stared, round-eyed.

“Hadn’t you heard?” asked Cuffe more softly. “The Malfoy boy is dead. Killed in the explosion at the Ministry. The body was too badly burned to be identified, but it’s been confirmed. Of course, there’s been a great deal of talk over what’s to become of the Malfoy fortune—”

“Cuffe!” said Gorgovitch sharply.

“Yes!” said Cuffe, snapping to attention. “We really must be going. Until next time, then, Ludovic. Do try to keep out of trouble.”

Bagman gave a wink that was more piteous than sly, and Disapparated with a _crack_. A moment later Cuffe and Gorgovitch had vanished as well. Harry threw off the cloak. Ron and Hermione stared back at him, at a loss for words.


	12. The Black Tomb

DUDLEY

Three fresh-faced recruits came sprinting down the corridor to the dining hall, nearly knocking Dudley flat.

“Sorry, Dursley!” one of them called, sending him a wink.

“Yeah, wotcher, Big D!” added a second. “Nice one on the interrogation last week! Faraday told us…”

“Don’t,” said Dudley under his breath, waving miserably. “Don’t call me that.”

But the recruits were already gone. Dudley had intended to make his way to the Supernatural Affairs Committee Headquarters dining hall early. The first rotation staff would be there already, making inroads on the ham and roast beef sandwiches, and he had wanted to load up his plate before it was too late. Now, he found his appetite abruptly vanishing.

For all his unexpected popularity at the Headquarters, Dudley could not feel at ease in his new position. Within a week of his arrival it had become clear that, though he was to be treated as deferentially here as he had been at every other juncture of his life, there would be no question of leaving. He was put through his paces in a bewildering sort of training session for non-magical folk by a series of falsely cheerful military gentlemen, who prodded him to interrogate chained prisoners on their suspected involvement in conspiracies against Muggle society. These Dudley recognized by their varicolored cloaks and star-spangled waistcoats as genuine members of his cousin’s lot, for who else would willingly turn themselves out in such absurd attire? He could not understand why he was expected to extricate information from them any better than anyone else in the Committee’s ranks, but searched the deepest recesses of his memory for any scrap of knowledge about his cousin’s world that might help. After all, the men who paraded him jovially around the Headquarters all wore semi-automatic rifles on their belts. And though it was never stated outright that Dudley was their prisoner, he found his questions expertly deflected each time he raised the possibility of returning home to see his family.

There was so much going on that they could not possibly spare him, he was told in a tone that suggested they were all sharing in a very good joke. They knew that Dudley would want to stay and lend a hand, wouldn’t he? Because anybody who would not surely did not place a very high premium on the Committee. And such a person might even be considered an enemy.

So Dudley stayed. He was permitted to write home twice weekly, but a niggling feeling told him that his letters might not really be finding their way to their destination. Not once had he received a response.

Cho had been right. Dudley cursed himself for having refused to cut his losses and run away with her when he had the chance. Often he wondered whether he would ever see her again, but it did not seem a likely prospect.

“Ah, there you are, Dursley!” said a crisp voice.

Roused from his dour reflections, Dudley looked around to see Faraday approaching. Faraday was second-in-command to the head of the Committee, an unremarkable yet distinctly menacing man by the name of Rothfang. Dudley sometimes had the impression that Rothfang merely tolerated his colleagues the way a slumbering Doberman tolerated indolent flies buzzing around its head in Summer, because it could not immediately be bothered to dislodge them. His first lieutenant was no less intimidating, though he wielded his authority in a more straightforward way. Faraday moved about the interminable steel-plated corridors of the Headquarters with four times the customary number of rifles strapped to his back, barking orders and sending trainees scurrying in fright. To Dudley, however, he was nothing but amicable.

“Have you got a minute?” asked Faraday rhetorically, for he knew full well that Dudley’s time was at the Committee’s disposal. “I have something special to show you. A real treat.”

Dudley’s stomach rumbled, but he acquiesced. A visit from Faraday usually meant that he would be spared an interrogation that day. Faraday led him back down the corridor towards the East wing, stopping several times to punch passcodes into keypads at the sliding doors that sealed each corridor from the next. Dudley had never been to this part of the Headquarters; as he understood it, only high-ranking personnel were allowed this far. At last they came to an elevator, marked with a single luminous arrow pointing downward.

“I take it you haven’t heard of the Tombs?” said Faraday as they stepped into the dimly-lit confines of the elevator.

Dudley shook his head.

“The macabre implications do not extend past the name, I assure you,” said Faraday good-humouredly. “Rothfang may have coined the term because of the chill that accompanies the subterranean wing. It is simply the place where we keep our most valuable subjects.”

In the language of the Committee, “valuable” meant dangerous and “subjects” meant prisoners. Dudley held his tongue.

“I thought you might be just the man to help me get through to one of the more, ah, shall we say _peculiar_ residents of the Tombs,” Faraday went on. “After you did such a stellar job on the Shunpike interrogation.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dudley muttered, eyes trained on his feet.

“Nonsense! False modesty is unmanly. You did fine work. Your knowledge of the supernatural world is invaluable to us.”

Dudley had been surprised to find that most of the Committee knew far less about magic than he did. They were, in effect, perfectly regular people who had been awoken to the existence of the magical world on the day Harry had cast a spell on television, and had enlisted to help subdue it without any idea of what they were getting involved in. Most recently, they had thrust Dudley into an interrogation chamber with a pimply young man in drab violet wizard’s robes, who had babbled very quickly that he had been in something called _Axkaban_ on false charges.

“I never was no Death Eater,” the young man had insisted. “The Ministry cleared my record, they did.”

Through a crackling radio receiver, Faraday had informed Dudley that this was Stan Shunpike, confirmed supernatural, charged with performing dangerous spells in public.

“That wasn’t my fault!” Shunpike had exclaimed before Dudley could speak, his eyes roving wildly from the radio receiver to the door. “I was helping some Muggles, see? Some of your folk. They were being attacked by—by Dementors! These dirty great creatures in cloaks. The Muggles come up to me yelling and pointing and I tried to help. Next thing I know one was after grabbing at my wand. What was I s’posed to do?”

“But normal people can’t see Dementors,” Dudley had said before he could think. It tormented him simply to speak the word aloud, but he was quite certain of his facts after having suffered a Dementor attack of his own.

Shunpike had spluttered incoherently. Faraday must have heard through the camera mounted on the wall, because the next thing Dudley knew he was being pulled from the room and clapped on the back.

“What’s going to happen to him?” Dudley had asked as Shunpike was dragged from the room. Faraday had given no answer.

The elevator slid to a smooth halt, bringing Dudley back to the present. He followed Faraday into a vast, low-ceilinged hangar of brushed steel, lined on either side with rows of opaque, black glass cells.

“Eight inches thick,” Faraday announced. “And one hundred percent escape-proof. This whole level is rigged with electromagnetism. It interferes with supernatural ability.”

Dudley wondered briefly whether Faraday was lying. Harry had never seemed to experience any difficulty using his magic in the proximity of electrical devices. Indeed, there had been times when Harry had become agitated, and the lights at Privet Drive had flickered, as though overwhelmed by Harry’s powers. Further, hadn’t Dudley seen something on television long ago about the dangers of exposure to high levels of electromagnetism? Then again, the engineers of the Headquarters surely knew better about these things than he did. Besides, a more pressing question presented itself.

“Who’s in there?” he asked, pointing at one of the cells.

Faraday led him around to the side of the far right enclosure, where a small clear square in the glass afforded a glimpse at what lay inside. Dudley peered through it and recoiled. A shrunken, pallid creature, greenish and glassy-eyed and entirely inhuman, was curled on its side in a corner of the cell. When it stood, its bat-like ears would come no higher than Dudley’s elbow. Diligently as he had worked to suppress the memory, Dudley recalled seeing a creature like this one on the night the tall, bearded wizard had come to Privet Drive to launch an assault against the Dursleys using levitating glasses of mead.

He had read about these abominations in one of Harry’s school books, what felt like an eternity ago. Dudley strained to remember.

“That’s a house-elf,” he said at last. “They’re like servants. But they have more magic than wizards.”

“Rothfang has been able to ascertain as much,” said Faraday approvingly. “What we need from you is information on the events surrounding its capture. In particular, the supernatural individuals involved. There are three very important fugitives we are working to locate.”

“Who are they?”

“That’s classified, I’m afraid.” Faraday smiled. “I will remain nearby for the entirety of your interrogation, of course.”

“Interrogation? You’re not going to send me _in_ there?”

Faraday was already pressing his palm against an infrared panel mounted on the wall. A section of the glass retracted into the floor.

“But—but—” spluttered Dudley, panic choking utterance.

Faraday shoved him quickly forward and sealed the glass behind him. Dudley cowered at the edge of the cell, waiting for the elf to storm at him with its globular eyes alight with madness. He knew that Ford would not permit him to leave the Tombs until he had completed his task. Yet he was painfully aware that his success with interrogations thus far had been entirely coincidental. What had he ever done to prepare him for a confrontation with a magical elf? The only things Dudley had ever been good at were boxing, and inciting other school children to do his bidding.

Seeing that the elf did not immediately charge at him with teeth bared, Dudley heaved an unsteady breath and labored to come up with a solution. Recruiting Piers Polkiss and the other neighborhood boys to his gang had always involved finding out what they feared most and making certain that he was the only one with that knowledge.

The elf at Privet Drive, upon hearing that Harry was its master, had fallen silent as if struck dumb. With great effort, Dudley found his tongue.

“Er… Who—Who’s your master?” he asked in the elf’s general direction.

It lifted its oversized head, slowly, fixing Dudley with disconcerting pewter-grey eyes.

Shoving his fists into his pockets to keep himself from trembling, Dudley repeated, “Who is your master?”

“Master Krum is telling Hob to run and keep safe,” squeaked the elf in a tiny voice. “Hob is vanting to help, but Hob is being caught by the Muggles.”

Hob? The elf might as well have been speaking German. Dudley wrinkled his brow. Was Hob another hidden creature lying in wait, or was it the elf’s name? And hadn’t Harry spoken the name Krum before, in the midst of the nightmares that made him toss and turn and shout “Cedric!”

Dudley tried again.

“Krum is your master?”

The elf moved into a sitting positon, hugging its knees.

“Hob is vorking for Master Krum, but Master Krum is not owning Hob. Hob is a free elf.”

There was a little strain of pride in the elf’s voice, and it lifted its chin as it spoke.

“So.” Dudley hesitated. “So why did you do what Krum asked and run? Who were you running from?”

“The bad Muggles,” said Hob tremulously. “The bad Muggles and the bad vizard. Hob is liking his Master, so Hob is doing vot he is asking and running from the bad vizard’s servants. Is sir a bad man?”

It took a moment for Dudley to realize that Hob was referring to him. At first he did not know how to answer.

“What bad wizard?” he tried. He had an idea that he knew who the bad Muggles were.

Quite abruptly, the elf stood and began to launch itself at the wall, banging its head violently against the glass.

“What are you doing?” shouted Dudley in alarm.

“Ve do not speak of him!” Hob wailed, still colliding with the wall. “Ve elves know ven to keep the secrets of magic. Hob cannot say. Hob is a good elf!”

“If Krum wants you safe, I’ll bet he doesn’t want you breaking your head open, either,” said Dudley desperately.

To his surprise, the elf demurred, sitting back on trembling hind legs and wringing its hands.

“Er, right.” Dudley cleared his throat. “If you can’t tell me about the, er, bad wizard, can you tell me anything else about the day you were captured? Why didn’t Krum protect you?”

“Master Krum is doing his best!” howled Hob, indignant at the slight flung on Krum. “Master Krum is doing his duty to his castle and protecting the boy with the lightning scar and his friends—”

Slightly disgusted, Dudley jumped forward and seized the elf by the collar as it broke off and its eyes grew large again. He felt a sinking feeling as he prevented Hob from running again at the wall. “The boy with the lightning scar” could only mean one thing.

“Hob vos supposed to keep the secret!” squeaked Hob, kicking and flailing against Dudley’s grip. “Bad, bad Hob!”

The wall opened up once more. Resigned, Dudley dropped the elf and retreated from the cell, avoiding Ford’s gaze.

“It doesn’t necessarily mean my cousin was with this Krum person,” he tried. The last thing Dudley had set out to do was betray his cousin’s location to the Committee after Harry had saved his life. “Harry told me that—that lots of people in the magical world have funny scars.”

“Don’t worry about that for now,” said Faraday, sealing up the wall. His eyes were glowing. “You’ve done excellent work, Dursley.”

“Er,” said Dudley.

“I told Rothfang you were ready,” Ford added. “I told him you were the man for the job. He had his doubts, but this confirms it. You, Dursley, are one of our best assets. I want to assign you to a task worthy of your talents.”

“I—I didn’t do anything.”

“All that business about the elf’s master. How were we to know to take that line of interrogation? But you knew. _You knew_. Your insight into the supernatural, based on a lifetime of coexistence with the fugitive Potter, is invaluable, and will make you an ideal Inquisitor.”

“A what?”

Faraday smiled broadly. “The Supernatural Inquisitor. I am arranging to have you sent by train to a dangerous location. You may have heard of it—Hogwarts.”

“The magical school?” said Dudley, taken aback.

“You see?” crowed Faraday. “Your insight is just the thing we need. You will be sent to this Hogwarts to oversee the activities undertaken there and ensure that all students and staff are properly registered. Any funny business, any at all, and you’ll be licensed to have them shut down. Alice in the South wing will brief you. You leave tonight.”

“But don’t you think it might be better,” said Dudley carefully, “to let the wizards keep to themselves like they did before? Instead of spending all this time and money chasing after them?”

“You’re reluctant.” Faraday strode past him to the far wall of the Tombs and back, nodding. “Yes. I understand that. Having been raised in proximity with one of them, I can understand why you would be hesitant to…” He stopped in front of Dudley and grasped him by the shoulders. “But what you must see, Dudley, is that these supernaturals are not like us. Surely you must have noticed it before. They do not think or act as we do.”

Dudley opened his mouth to speak, but Faraday forestalled him.

“The Brockdale Bridge collapse, three years ago,” he said. “Did you know that was them?”

There had been a great uproar about that bridge in the papers. Dudley shook his head.

“They were responsible,” said Faraday calmly. “Nearly fifty people were killed, and why? Because a madman named Riddle preached that we, the non-supernatural, were inferior. Unworthy. It is a matter of record. And yet this Riddle has never been brought to justice, has never stood trial before we _Muggles_ , as he called us, who deserve to face our attacker. For centuries they have tormented us, killing us by the hundreds without consequence. Barnabas Deverill, who used us for unspeakable experiments in the seventeenth century. The Dark supernatural Gellert Grindelwald, who was jailed quietly in a magical prison. The families of those he slaughtered were never recompensed. And this Riddle! Who among the supernaturals stood up and extended the courtesy of a mere warning? Who fought to keep us safe?”

“But Harry did—”

“Your cousin hid you, far away from your home, from your life!” Faraday exclaimed, waving his arms. “Did he once ask you whether you cared to be shipped off while he took your life in his hands? They do not see us as people. Potter fought for his own gains, just as those who fought Grindelwald fought for their own gains.”

Dudley wondered how Faraday knew all this business about dark wizards. He wondered whether he could recall Harry ever asking him whether he wanted to go into hiding. But then again, harry had not asked to have a madman kill his family, either. Faraday’s face was alight with a manic fervor.

“It is our duty to take back the liberties stolen from us by the supernaturals,” he said. “And we must use the means at our disposal. If we do not, they will continue to trample us. They will continue to reach into our minds and remove our will and our memories. Are you ready to fight for this cause, Dudley?”

Dudley’s mind was in turmoil. It occurred to him that he would not know it if Harry had ever meddled with his memories, as all his school books said could be done. After all, the family of freaks who had burst through the fireplace at Privet Drive five years ago had done a spiffing job of charming the sitting room back to normal as though nothing had ever happened.

The guns strapped over Faraday’s shoulders shone a dull silver under fluorescent light.

He nodded.

“Your train leaves at six,” said Faraday.

The remainder of the day passed in a daze, as Dudley was shuffled from one wing of the Headquarters to another in preparation. He thought vaguely that, whatever else awaited him, perhaps Harry might make an appearance at the freak school. Dudley would be able to warn him of the dangers impending. It was not until he was ushered into a sleek town car in the company of a young woman toting a clipboard that he was drawn up short.

“Release forms,” she announced, handing him the clipboard and a pen. “We’re sending a television crew with you on the train. Of course, you’ll have to make the last leg of the journey by helicopter.”

“Television crew?” Dudley repeated, alarmed.

“Not an imposition, I hope,” said the woman pleasantly. “We’re trying to dispel some of the misinformation plaguing the public. We recognize that media relations since the incident at Saint Paul’s cathedral have been mishandled from top to bottom. Half of Britain still believes the incident was an act of terrorism. Others believe the culprits were perpetrating an elaborate hoax. As a blood relative to the chief subject of controversy, we believe you are the perfect person to keep the public informed. The new face of the Committee! If you agree, of course.”

It was not really a question, and he knew it. Dudley signed the release forms. Satisfied, his companion instructed the driver to take them, not to King’s Cross, but to a private station in the North of London. The camera crew were there to meet him.

There was a time when Dudley would have been thrilled to appear on television. He would have preened and shown off and lorded it over the boys in his gang. At present, he wanted nothing more than to be rid of the five chatting cameramen and interviewers buzzing around him. They fired a relentless series of questions at him, inquiring about everything from his favourite television program to his opinion on the “supernatural menace.” Dudley kept his answers as monosyllabic as possible. By the time the train began to gather speed, he already wanted to knock the teeth out of several of them.

He had never bothered to ask Harry about the train ride to Hogwarts or anything else about his accursed school, and would have gladly gone to his grave in ignorance. Now that he was in a position to step into Harry’s shoes, he was constantly taken aback by the length of the train ride, the wildness of the scenery streaming past his compartment window, and at last the sight that greeted him when his helicopter descended upon its destination. The helicopter ride consisted of many abrupt drops in altitude, and was nothing like what Dudley’s computer games had led him to believe. By the time he found himself hovering over the site of vast, crumbling ruins, his stomach was in knots.

“Hold tight!” called the pilot, bearing down on the ruins.

“What are you doing?” shouted Dudley.

“The trick is to concentrate!” the pilot cried, wind whipping his hair about his face. “The place we’re going is unplottable. Can’t be put on a map. Luckily, I’ve taken passengers in before. I know the bearing. But that castle doesn’t want to be found.”

For all that he sounded confident, even exhilarated, Dudley squeezed his eyes shut as the helicopter headed directly for a pile of protruding rubble. When he opened them, he was stunned to find himself sitting a little apart from the edge of a churning lake. A monumental castle loomed over the acres of sloping vegetation and the distant quilt of trees bordering the grounds. Hardly daring to breathe, Dudley stepped out of the helicopter and looked all around him.

So this was the place Harry had disappeared to each year. It had a definite majesty, with its clusters of towers rising impossibly high to meet the sky. A few of the castle’s windows were lit, pinpricks of dancing flame against the night. Yet even by Wizarding standards, Dudley felt that something here was amiss. The grass at his feet was a sickly yellow under the moonlight, and a nearby wood cabin was surrounded by piles of pungent, decaying pumpkin viscera. The trees seemed sparse and stunted.

“Someone will be down to meet you soon,” announced the pilot, startling Dudley badly. “I’ll be going. This place always gives me the chills. Can’t imagine why you’d take an assignment here, if I’m being honest.”

With a friendly nod, he secured his headset and sat back. Dudley scurried clear of the helicopter’s propellers and watched as it rose unsteadily into the sky. By the time it had sped away to skirt the treetops, Dudley had spotted a lantern bobbing its way towards him across the grounds.

Now came the real test; the part Dudley had been dreading. Now he had to face a wizard and not lose his head. There was no way of knowing whether the castle would be full of Faraday’s spies. He was at least glad that the camera crew had not followed him this far, for he could no longer keep himself from trembling.

At last the newcomer came into view. He was a bilious old man who walked with a slight limp, and fixed Dudley with a beady eye. Dudley reminded himself to breathe at regular intervals.

“You’ll be the Inquisitor, then?” asked the old man.

Dudley nodded and managed to choke out, “Dudley Dursley.” He did not think he could bring himself to shake hands just now.

“Filch, caretaker.” Suddenly rancorous, the old man added, “This way, then. I don’t have all night!”

Dudley followed along in his wake, shivering against the bitter Winter’s chill. He had not thought to pack a coat or any other garment, as Faraday had assured him that he would find everything he needed at the castle.

“Don’t expect none too warm a reception up there,” said Filch abruptly.

Dudley made a strangled noise that he was not quite able to pass off as a cough.

“They’re not pleased you’re coming. I don’t expect they’d have had you at all, if not for that nasty business up at Durmstrang.” Filch looked over his shoulder. “But then, you’ll know all about that.”

“Er,” said Dudley in as neutral a tone as possible.

“Of course, we’ve had Inquisitors before,” Filch went on. “Ministry Inquisitors, and the like. But never a Muggle. It’s the students you’ll want to watch out for. They’re likely to make life difficult for you.”

Dudley could not decide if Filch was threatening him. He braced himself, expecting at any moment to see a bright flash of light and be transfigured into a toadstool.

“I’ll—I’ll be lodging in the castle?” he managed.

“’Course,” grunted Filch. He looked around again in impatience, his jowls aquiver. “Can’t have you staying in Hagrid’s hut now the grounds have begun to rot, can we?”

“Rot?”

Filch was silent for a moment. A malicious gleam had come into his eye, and he gave Dudley a discomforting look of appraisal.

“You’re just hired help, aren’t you?” he said, his lips pulling back in a yellow smile. “You don’t have the first idea what you’re walking into.”

They had arrived at the castle. Dudley was saved from having to come up with an answer as a pair of strangers stepped into the lamplight to greet him. The first was a frightening witch in emerald robes with her hair in a severe chignon, who regarded Dudley as though he were a misbehaving house pet asking to be let inside. At the sight of the second figure, Dudley paled.

“Mr Dursley,” said the witch icily. “Welcome to Hogwarts. I would like it understood that you are here because I was outvoted by the board of governors. Were it up to me, Hogwarts would continue to see to the care of its students as it has always done.”

Dudley opened and closed his mouth, unable to produce any sound whatsoever.

“While you are here,” the witch continued, “we have enlisted our Professor of Care of Magical Creatures and former Gamekeeper, Hagrid, to show you around the grounds and ensure that you are comfortable.”

She nodded, and the monstrous giant, the lunatic, the man who had broken down the doors of the Dursleys’s ocean cottage eight years ago to give Dudley that abominable pig’s tail, stepped forth to shake his hand.


End file.
